Coping.

Photo Credit: Andrew Neel on Unsplash

We are haunted
by her absence.

Mother
dearest matriarchal keeper
nursing a mug of ginger tea
It hasn’t reached her lips yet.

Father
the emotional watchmen
scribbling indecipherable letters
furiously editing their illegible paragraphs

Our home is haunted
by her absence

Lovely sister
the sorceress of paper dolls and tag
occupies herself with braiding Miss Sherry’s hair
her back slightly bent, guarding her side of the room.

Tender brother
a growing boy of stone-cold expressions
grumbles in bed, throwing his tattered baseball
into the stilted air of his confined space, a suffocating chasm.

This town is haunted
by her absence.


A warning.

Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash

Our rich blood
refuses to coagulate.

It will flood
your idyllic suburbia.

your chapped lips
ragged from your nervous licking

your sickly, sweaty sheen
far from discreet

Deal with it.

Our death throes
will instigate earthquakes.

Your vast, sprawling lots
are our beautiful gardens.

We decline your appeasement.
We wish not to be displaced.

Are you not my brother?
Am I not your son?
Are they not your daughters?
Are you not our parents?

Amidst our strangled weeping,
our hands are raised.

Our battered, stinking vessels
weather the frigid nightfall.

glaring at the gleaming, towering cliffs
we weren’t meant to…


A Biblical-immersive poem.

Photo by iam_os on Unsplash

though shall not covet
though shall not lust

muddied brown eyes
the shade of His fingers
painting sight onto the Blind Man
sun-kissed skin
cloaked in sturdy sackcloth
your left sandal
hanging by tattered straps

no
no, Joseph wouldn’t approve of us at all

honor thy father
honor thy mother

you didn’t tell me
you had a martyr for a sibling

his “death”
hardened you
petrified you
on a dusty limestone
overlooking your desolate homeland

tucking your ordinary coat into your abdomen
it wasn’t as flamboyant or brash
as that cherished gift from Father Jacob

I drink your grief the…


Photo Credit: Cristian Newman on Unsplash

A sequel to “Jonas’ Nightmare”.


Decorah, IA. By Yours Truly.

A poem.


Another poem.

Thank you, Joseph.

I dreamt I was straight
resigned to suburban probation
shackled to a Barcalounger
force-fed veggie burgers and cold brew.

I dreamt I was a painter
smearing, coloring
the universe, the grim crevices of This Nation
in my preference of chroma.

how ‘bout I turn this country
into the Queer, Non-binary Capital of the World?

I dreamt I was a vagabond
subsisting on greasy scraps and morning dew,
the choicest cuts of soil,
seeking shelter under a naked Arizona night sky.

I dreamt I was daring
a connoisseur of intense stares,
scrutinizing, examining,
all their pale, bloodshot eyes.

I dreamt I…


Anger.

Source: Arisa Chattasa

from listening to too much Juliana Hatfield and Sonic Youth
not enough Weezer and Sheryl Crow
from painting with too much blood red and shit brown
not enough robin-egg blue and violet

shave your split-end hair
drape the clippings over a piss-stained armchair
scream shriek bellow seethe
recite the 23rd Amendment
retrace your steps
to the moment you started loathing everyone

from wolfing down too much jalapeno chips and cucumbers
not enough mixed greens or turmeric
from drinking too much lager and cheap bourbon
not enough milk and carrot juice

repaint the front door mauve shred the bank statements julienne…

Arthur Ramirez

Aspiring novelist and amateur poet and op-ed writer on gay/queer/GSM topics. CA —> MN —> ? Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.

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