The only person I ever punched in the face is dead. His name was Seneca, like the old Roman philosopher. About the time I read his obituary, I died too.
I was working night watch at a GM plant outside of Detroit and, thermos full of hot water and backpack full of teabags and textbooks, I attended university in the mornings. Nine a.m., Ancient Greek. Latin right after. Then some history classes. On a welcome spring break my senior year, I arranged to have my wisdom teeth removed.

Red ribbon around the bark of an old oak tree,
a present to the woods, a marker to a walker
down its dirt paths. This afternoon I am the walker.
I pause at the tree and wonder at the sight
of a violent color tied up amongst mineral green and dirt.

Boisterous cab drivers, chewing betel, buzzed around the queue at the pre-paid taxi counter of Agra Cantonment Railway Station, detailing the attractions of Agra to tourists. Shipra strutted across the station facade, halting the crawling taxis with her outstretched hand, before joining her father in the queue. Her poise and ease generated the impression of a native used to honking scooters and howling taxi drivers.

Seventh grade was the year when the kids from the two elementary schools in our district all got piled into the Junior High building to begin middle school. It was a transition period for us children into young adulthood. Lockers, school bells, switching classes, and the dreaded “changing out” in gym class all awaited us.
Along with my fear of changing my clothes around my male peers in the locker room, I also began to fear most male interaction. I knew I couldn’t blend in with them, even if I didn’t know I was gay.

Peace through strength—
our strongman’s favorite slogan.
When will they learn?
You cannot gain peace through bombing.

Divinely guided, cross hung around the neck, Bible in
hand, quoting scripture as we bomb foreign land—
Sanctified greed, embodied in tailored suits.

I sat up from my coffin as the church bells began to ring. My tiny mausoleum remained much the same as the night before: the stone slab of my coffin sat turned at an angle, allowing me to sit up and take my evening walkabouts. Dead leaves and detritus littered the floor, mingling with mouse droppings, spiders, and the refuse of nature that wind blows into such spaces.

all night the bear is coming down the mountain
bound for the strong river
running down to the distant city
but still she comes,
swimming, dripping, shaking her fur in the Tivoli
mud banks,
loping through pussy willow, rose brier,
inhaling honey suckle

Beck watched fat freckles and swelling blisters burgeon across her girlfriend’s face and shoulders on their seventh day stranded in their emergency dinghy. A speck lost somewhere on the Pacific Ocean.
On the first night, as the adrenaline from the crash ebbed, Beck watched Bea’s eyes grow heavy before slumping against the stiff, inflated side of the dinghy. Beck tried to rid her girlfriend of the shivers coursing through her body as the temperature plummeted, but it was no use.

A song by The Beach Boys
washes through satellite dead spots.
Riding in a used Corvette
the kind with the hammerhead headlights
that flip up and down.
Papa’s hands wave and point above the gear stick
like he’s discussing spots on a family burial plot.

Pancho grew up in Texas, which accounts for the name he assumed. Franz was born and raised in Baltimore, which doesn’t. They met at college somewhere in the Midwest, where Pancho majored in narcissism, and Franz, in egocentricity.
Pancho and Franz had one strong trait in common, a characteristic that drew them to one another, bonded them such that they became inseparable — and that was self-love.

I tried guile at times
And haste often, but far worse
Was the unknowing. . .

I said it slowly
But did not forgive myself
For being truthful. . .

Her phone buzzed: Lia pulled it out of her pocket to check the incoming message, expecting a meme, or a friend sending pictures from her latest walk. It was not. “I was there this morning: she’s refusing to take her meds, and she’s yelling at the nurses again. Called the doctor a benchod.” It was a message in the family group chat.

Since getting out of the hospital, I had been waking up before the sun. For half an hour or so, I would sit outside in the near dark, still and peaceful, and watch the sky change. As I sipped my first cup of coffee, the sun slipped into the day as black became royal. Then a hint of gold and orange would appear right before the sky turned a brilliant light blue and filled with the huge cloud shapes that only a flat landscape and a humid climate can create. The breeze stirred the plants around the pool, and I would hear the muffled sounds of Alice making breakfast, little clinks of spoons and the soft whoosh of the refrigerator opening. This scene is supposed to help me relax and be introspective.

Undone diction
etherized upon a table.
Is or isn’t. In or out. For or against.
Ones, zeroes, x’s, o’s.
Klaxoned opinions clamoring.
A crisis indeed.

The sun blazes overhead. Jenny, like a Butoh dancer in meditative motion, turns the wheel with slow, deliberate grace. The car glides silently along the winding road. Inside, the AI-controlled A/C keeps her cool and comfortable. She no longer resists the heat. Her mind is vacant now.
Suddenly, she grips the wheel and swerves right. Her car merges onto a narrow road canopied by towering oaks.

My father must have heard me walking past his bedroom that late afternoon. He often went to his room before dinner. I assumed he was awake probably watching TV or reading the newspaper, something hardly anyone did anymore, but he did.
He said through the closed door, “I’m still breathing.”
“I’m going out for a bit. I’m walking down to the lake,” I said. I stood listening for a reply. There was none. I stayed a few more minutes not making a sound. Then I heard him mumble something to himself in a quiet, monotone voice. All I could hear was “thank you” said twice, but I didn’t think he was talking to me.

My underarms were moist, the back of my neck clammy. The shower I took in my sister’s dorm was for naught, failing to prevent the pervasive body odor that betrayed me. It was an early March morning in Bloomington, the humidity transforming my shoulder-length hair into a mop of brown frizz, the surface of my face red-lumped and shining like a vinyl rain slicker. I meandered across the quad.

Individuals were often psychologically broken down in Project MK-Ultra, a top-secret CIA program, where agents conducted nonconsensual experiments using drugs like LSD from 1953 until around 1973. However, books like Drugs as Weapons Against Us support that it continued afterward.

Paranoia is deeply embedded in American culture, centered around themes of unhinged scientists and computers, such as the members of an oligarchy that funded Operation MK-Ultra and the Dartmouth Summer Research Project on Artificial Intelligence. These efforts became key in establishing and supporting AI labs for the future, further strengthening the CIA’s dominance.

Many nights I go to sleep
a teenager and wake
up as an old woman. Mid-
life plays out in dreams

Kabir stood on Agatti Island, staring at the ocean. The water was a perfect blend of blue and green. Turquoise blue. No, turquoise green. Kabir couldn’t decide which one. He glanced at the green stone on his ring. Then, he noticed the swell of the waves crashing against the shore. The water appeared blue.

She held the book in her hands, completely overwhelmed with a mix of jubilation and disbelief. It was like a dream, but the book was very real, the cold, smooth feel of its beautiful hardcover against her palms. A poetry chapbook, nature themed, with the author’s name printed beneath the illustration of a tree by the riverside. Annemarie stared down at the name, reading it repeatedly while wiping away tears of joy. Her name. Her book. A collection of poems by Annemarie Wilder.

On that Christmas morning, he was alone in a small, dim apartment on the southern edge of Mill Avenue, about two miles from the sprawling, rose-hued buildings of Arizona State University. His second wife, Antonia, the Grinchette—mercurial and thirty—had left him in late August 1991, setting off on the last of the “hippie bus” lines, The Green Tortoise. A vintage, meandering bus would eventually bring her back to her parents’ rundown house in the otherwise upscale town where Hemingway was born. Soon after she left, he boxed up and shipped her remaining things.

Questioning
Prayers among hilltop oak and elm seek clarity from God. Do answers lie within my silent soul? Eyes spill tears at headlines from Gaza, Ukraine and Iran. Ideals no longer shine in leaders save for those with little sway. Might once-joyful children’s voices haunt men who order other men to kill? Could retribution’s prospect put their plans in disarray?

Since dawn Jesus has walked the streets
with different faces and portable PA’s
expounding on hell Jesus has nothing good to say
before the flowers come roll down the road on wheels
on floats made of roses and rice and lentils everything organic