The Poetry Outpost

"A poet's work is to name the unnamable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep."
- Salman Rushdie
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Poetry:

If a Sky Could be Pungent
Cherri Steinloski

Out the framed glass, to the world.
Sky blossoms into abyss;
captivatingly wretched and worn.
Zeus wipes sweat away
and it trickles upon the crowds, gathered one by one.
Each impressed by a strife and toil of day to day.

Puddles become reflections of the disaster
we call home.
Darkness whirls above possessing hues of ambition.
The sun, struggles to illuminate
Where we eat, sleep, hate, and create envy.

An image of America,
a reflection of our own.
The sky today, too close to home.

Jovial Orange
Nicole Vasquez

The orange
brilliantly caught
in the sunlight, capturing my attention
among all other utensils and objects,
turning into mush.
Seen backward in my eyes
then flip flopped
in my noggin as the world should be.
My heart beats
a bit faster in realization;
Of all things, at least I am capable
of this simple task. Is there hope?
An urge to smile
compels me.
But I cannot.
My cheek muscles won’t budge.
They ache when I stretch them upward.
Ah, perhaps backward,
toward my ears?
No. It does not work.
Perhaps if I crane my neck? No.
Perhaps stretch these lips slightly south,
and stiffen my upper? No.
I suppose I am not capable
of this seemingly simple task.
The only difference I can summon between the two simplicities:
One contains thought, the other naught.
So why not try the mush orange,
though, I don’t want to ruin
its delicate eccentricity,
now ablaze with light in my kitchen.
One last look, imprint the bedazzled thing in my mind,
then tear, tear, tear.
My face sours.
Most definitely has it been sun stroked too long.
My twisted face in displeasure is close enough.
At least my cheeks
are pulled into the correct position.
I’ll just try again tomorrow.
A new orange for another try.

Prose:

Be a Man
Aaron Kennedy

I walked through my front door, and shut it behind me. My back felt like plywood and my neck felt cracked in half. As always I hear my mom’s voice, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me mom” I replied setting down my bag and hanging up my coat.

“Who’s me?”

“Aaron, mom,” she always yells at people who come in the house. I have never understood why. She says it’s because she doesn’t want strangers in her house. I think she is just weird.

“Oh, you’re home,” she walked out of her room. Her usual hug along with the usual “How was your day” question followed.

My usual response didn’t follow. “It pretty much sucked. How was your day?”

“Same” I looked at the woman that stood up only to my chest level. My mom’s hair is graying and she wears thick round glasses. Her smile has a thick gap between her two front teeth. She grew up in the ghetto of Utah, Salt Lake City. To put it bluntly, my mom is tough and if she wants, mean. One time she told me a story of how she ran away from these two guys who were going to mug her. She was running down stairs when she landed awkward and broke her ankle, she still outran them. Basically, I wouldn’t mess with my mom.

“Why is life such a pain in the ass mom?” I groaned as I rubbed by hand through my hair and around my eyes.

“Is life being a pain in the ass boy?” She always called me boy. I think it’s because I’m the youngest in my family.

“Yes mom.”

“Well boy what is it? I hope it’s not a lady?”

“How did you guess mom?”

“I’m your mother,” she gave me a look of obviousness. “What seems to be the problem with this lady?”

“Well mom, I don’t know what to tell her honestly. I wish that I could be with her but I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” I saw the thoughts brewing in my mother’s mind. She has an answer to everything. I wondered what was going to come out of my mother’s mouth next.

“Well boy. Sometimes what a man must do is tell a lady how he feels about her.” Then my mom proceeded to punch me in the chest. She was wearing three rings on her hand that had just connected to my sternum. “Now grow some balls and tell her how you feel.”

My mom left me feeling like the boy she called me. But believe it or not there was logic in her actions. My mom had told me to be a man, in an unusual fashion, but that’s how she has taught me my whole life. I believe it was due to the fact that she grew up in the ghetto. When my chest stopped hurting, I got out my phone and called the “lady” and told her the truth. To this day I will have a friend that will last the rest of my life, and a lesson that taught me to be a man.