The Costco Generation

The world is a famine place, a drought place

a war-torn place, a place we have made over

into a place of hunger and displacement. We

watch it all on TV, keep up as best we can. We

try to stay out of it all, very easily we look away

change the channel, fix a snack, reassure our-

selves. There’s nothing wrong with us. We are

the Costco generation, the Walmart generation

the all you can eat generation. We shop our fill

through aisles and aisles stacked to the ceiling

giant sized, jumbo sized, larger portions of all

we need or might need. We fear running out, so

we fill our cupboards and freezer and look for

the best deal, look for the best deal. We are ex-

ceptionalism in action, being exceptional and

living in it, acting it out. While the rest of them

seem to get it all wrong, stay homeless and stay

hungry, have wars playing out within their borders.

We, on the other hand, make war elsewhere and

send the weapons to fight in them. We complain

about the homeless and spend fortunes on diets

so we can look the part and live for almost for-

ever. We fill out the surveys, write online reviews,

spend countless hours on social media trying to

keep up enough to respond. This is the Costco

generation, warehouses full of all the things that

define us, make us over – leave us like this.

                  Terrorizing

We’re learning about terrorism from

the best of ’em, the worst of ‘em

Isis, Hezbollah, and Hamas, the better

known groups, and those smaller ones

and individuals who often claim

responsibility for some attack, explosion

or the assassination of some political figure

anything to get to be part of the news on

our various news networks, claim it and

get the fame, the recognition they need in

the terrorist game. We watch it go on

24 hours a day, yesterday, last night, this morning.

It’s like an out of control weed, a pandemic,

a bit of climate change that is drying us out

leaving us the shell of our former selves.

Now we have become students of death, in its

various forms, destruction for its own sake.

We’ve become helpless talking heads that

are watching the world come apart, and we

are terrorizing ourselves with it.

        Modern Medicine

Check-In and Check-Out for

Interventional Pain Medicine

shares a waiting room with

the Check-In and Check-Out

for Endocrinology and Bone

Density Scan, so there’s sort

of a crowd checking-in or out

most of the day. This is a quiet

crowd, mostly older folks who

probably know what’s coming.

The diabetics cluster around one

end of the room, while the rest

spread out, some alone and some

have a driver along, the pain meds

they get numb up a knee or hip

or other joint making their drive

home a bit of a problem. This is

contemporary medicine with an

assortment of cheerful nurses and

aids and over-serious receptionists

near a sign reminding us not to harm

health care works – it’s a crime to

hit or spit on them or even threaten

them – this is modern medicine and

modern patients are ready to take each

other on – this is the waiting room.

J.K. Durick is a retired teacher, taught for years at Trinity College of Vermont and after that for many years at the Community College of Vermont. He and a friend started following the pandemic by writing a poem for every day – we now have run out of pandemic and have written 1618 and plan to continue till we run out.

The Memories

He can’t 

Write away

The memories

But he can

Write through them

And that’s

Not just

A big deal,

It’s everything.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

DECREATION

It is one moment past midnight

on the 8th day of morning.

Our Styx ferries become consumed

with the burning of bibles.

Seven heavens eighten themselves

and shrink and infinitize.

In this silent Babel

the sciencemagic we learned

while head over heels upside down

from hanged Marut and Harut

is finding and losing its feet.

Apocalypse collapses.

Ahuramazda unities

vanish darkness into bright.

Medusa’s pale horse Pegasus

comets Quetzalcoatl;

Fenris swallows the Eighth Archon

and then pukes and pukes him out.

The set sun eludes prediction.

No west exists to rise from.

CARNIVAL OF LOVE

The bearded lady

has two lovers,

the apeman and the geek.

Their sex is crazy,

peeling rubber

on high wires and the street.

When bearded lady

becomes mother

to a new circus freak,

the lucky baby

has two others

to help him feel unique.

FOWL WEATHER

Six ducks in a pond

swimming through a warm sweet spring rain–

pond is duck is air.

STILL STRANGERS:

EROS

IN EROSION

After years

of wear, she would sew

with those sharp dead

beads, new thoughts

into the threadbare pattern of memory,

and he solder

his older, darker, thoughts into place….

… Long ago…

they learned to slaughter

their eager laughter and tear

their deepest tears out of each’s other,

they taught themselves to utilize their exquisite words

like hamhamhammers and broadswords–

then, their mutual wounds

they wound all about their lives like poison ivy.

(Each just one more bothersome

clone to the other…)

But

There had been a time

,once,

before the tiny

mutiny,

when they were still strangers

to anger,

when they could lie naked,

sun-baked upon the jurassic sands

or beside the slow hearth,

unearthing new treasures from their together,

when, in some safe

cafe, their yes

-eyes could swallow entire

their sweet menus

of Venus

and for many an hour

pour their love

from lip to mouth like milk from a pitcher to a glass.

But that time passed…

Strangely

angel-like, two

naif

waifs

blown

down,

unable to unwind all the ivy accumulation

in a rugged wind – they just

shrugged, unable to face down

the demons of their facetious selves.

(This is not simply

to imply that they weren’t determined.

But, over time, stubborn assiduity becomes undermined,

especially when connubial cement lacks

reinforcement.

So, by fragile grapevines, over

tangled ravines,

the values they were hanging onto

kept changing.

They were unable to forge a structure anew

or to forget old collapse.

Neither the heights of their dear science nor

the weight of alerted conscience,

And not Keats, and certainly

not Yeats,

could keep the crevices in their isolate selves

from inventing the devices of their together’s undoing.)

Beached,

they discovered the sea:

inequal parts nausea and mystery.

HIGH COUP

O moon, so distant…

I’m not smokin’ in Tokyo,

my poem will not fire.

“Revolution bursts

sunlight on stained stainless steel:

your yolkcolored hair.”

Night’s vaunted Shakespeare:

just flaccid Little Willie,

cold to geisha stars.

“Nestraw hair – egg’s eye

blue – honeyed limbs; trunkhugging

bearcubeMe:     climbing.”

Sake enflames verse

(you say), arouses rhythm,

kindles rhymes sublime–

mine (old drunken whore)

fires up unsuccessfully,

sucks relentlessly,

till we fall asleep.

And Basho the monk remains,

red raw poem limp, still.

…

IN SOLITARY 

1. SAMIZDAT*

 Writer’s craft: manacled to conviction 

           like any zek to his sentence, 

            like a blatnoi to a pen

: assaults its own position 

: like a gaybist missionary, assassinates its friends

: like any other virgin –

just another bloody period, 

and another conception ends.

2.  YOUR BODY TELLS THE HIGHWAYMAN 

If prose is just a page running across your face, 

poetry is the line lying between your thighs.

Your body tells the highwayman’s short story life:

The drama of poems at the point of conception, 

but just one more hackneyed form in execution.

3.      LIFE/SENTENCE

 key in the cake –

(in music, truth hid?)

oh,

the poet’s prison is 

the rhythm of his

poem 

                        starved, 

                        scarred – 

he makes his

break

*inspired by Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago

…

Nothing

I have never existed

Before

Being Here

I will never exist

Here again

After this

Everything else is just

Something that happens

In between nothing

When life takes an empty turn,

The performer collapses off the stage

The fire put on for the cremation burns down the script

The actor has nothing left to do in this drama

From all the glories of human pursuits,

Each of us can only take our portion of nothing

Gaurav Ojha

Kathmandu, Nepal

Let tie our broom sticks together and sweep the floor in our society.

A word of peace is like a kettle of water,

But we are now ruled by the kingdom of pieces.

Nowadays

Neighborhood is like enemies of yester age,

Where two neighbors live in the same compound but opponent heart.

The tree of hatred planted into our minds,

Who’s bear the fruit of conflict,

Growing stronger and bearing more fruits.

Hatred killing the foundation of good Morrow

Now today

Hatred is building the tower of conflict

Injecting odium Into the heart of today child.

Killing love in the mind of tomorrow men’s 

Where indeed in yester age 

A child spent a day in friend house

Where they Will play together

Eat lunch together

And even call the friend mother mummy

But in today years

We are lost in a black forest

Where our hatred have distract our children friendship

Always avoiding them from eating neighbors meals

Giving them toys to stop playing with the neighbors children

This are not the anthem of democracy we heard from larks during quadrennial replacement.

Half dead tree unlikely to bear fruit,

Watering with patience,

But refuse to change.

They are quadrennial replacement,

Yearning for the votes from our thumbs.

The trees are becoming enormous,

Like tree’s in the forest,

Standing with dry leaves.

They keep rejecting works

Becoming more baren than ever.

They grow to consume our toils,

But serving us nothing.

Moon(haiku)

Shining all the night,

In the gap between darkness,

That lighten the earth.

Market

A panel board,

That bridge different wires,

Red, black and yellow,

With different insulators

Wealth

Wishes that makes dream

Come true,

The pride of human

That defines existence.

Precious stone

Oh precious stone

Human are thirsty to have,

Hustle through curdles day and night.

Green fingers

The wealth of the nation

Waving at us

Agriculture growing

Crops mingling with us.

Stay in gist with them

From dawn to dusk.

Green fingers that wave at us

Like calabash on a river

Accompany us with air.

Green fingers

Our marketer

That we undergoes barta trade

Exchanging health and joy.

Argony(haiku)

Always Mood changer

That fills the heart with anger

Like a mourning one

I am in pain

Blood flow like stream

Embracing the soil

That reduce our fertile.

Bandit and Boko Haram

Acting of their choice

Insecurity embracing us

Victims have no fear for law again

Kill and earn

Murderer becoming occupation

Rule of law abandoned

People suffering from pieces

Peace have been buried cause by low security.

Nuraini Mohammad Usman is a passionate writer and student from Minna, Niger state with roots in Kano State. Inspired by his experience and culture, he crafts uplifting poems and stories that ignite positive change with a strong foundation from Better Treasure international school and Al-fawzul Azeem International School, Nuraini is currently honing his skills at Legend International School and Hilltop Creative Art foundation. He believes in the power of words to inspire and motivate others.