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February 2017

& Today's Supreme Court Justice Nominee Goes To...

· Trump,The Stay Project,Feminism

What of gold?

Well, what of it? Submit what you make of gold to threepoets2017@gmail.com.

Artist Index

13 - Beth Alvarado

12 - Stephen Mead

11 - Laura Page

10 - bvonhoene

9 - Madeline Cooper, for Bella

8 - Sophie Strand

7 - Thomas B Osatchoff

6 - Colin James

5 - Colin James

4 - Shareen Murayama

3 - Shareen Murayama

2 - Austin Anderson

1 - lw

13 - Baby A/Baby B

Baby A says he had this really bad dream where the one-who-wants-to-make-America-great-again took all the babies and put them in an old warehouse because he wanted them to use their tiny hands to make cell phones. And then he put wire netting all around the warehouse so the babies couldn't escape, not even by jumping off the roof! In this way, he would bring manufacturing jobs back from China. Dude, Baby B says, that is seriously dystopian. Have you been reading George Orwell again?

12 - What On Earth...

11 - International Zones

Like a lot of other white girls, I’ve thought about

resuming worship of a god my cohort has scrupulously re-

imagined as that faceless Jedi-guide. God is a force

other white girls tell me.

Today Washintgton sent up a trial balloon for

a coup and praying persons caught the shrift. The prayerful

that were here already they’re saving for later, but the

ones that were coming to

to be with their families, or just to be alive,

with special visas, veterans, interpreters for the U.S armed forces

in the fraught past, from countries I can count on one hand,

from countries that have never

shed American blood—they’ve stopped.

There were groups of people huddled on the floor, heads

bowed, so one might think they too were praying next to those of

all ages facing Mecca, foreheads kissing the too-bright

carpets of extraterritoriality at LAX, ORD, JFK, who

like me, were trying to harness a little bit of holy force,

penitent, pro bono, haloed in the cloud, in smartscreens waning power.

Airbnb keeps folding families arrived to greet the travelers

in its million kitchenettes.

Washington whispers registry and I just want to

believe in something again, so

I think, like a lot of other white girls, what if I tried to be holy again?

What if I could be?

Can those who have not suffered be holy?

Can I register as a Muslimah if it comes to that? Will I pray?—be

any good at it anymore? Is it too late

to submit my application to be a Jedi knight?

10 - kissing underwater

the day you brought home a dozen pink tulips was the day after flynn resigned. you vased them in collins glasses and a swingtop. you let me find unopened buds

on the nightstand, by the skull, on the toilet. it was valentine’s day. i kissed your neck. aren’t we at the same latitude as maastricht you asked. closer to simferopol

i said. you seared a ribeye in cast iron. when it set off the smoke alarm, i opened all the windows. we ate meat with golden beets - fed each other banana cake by flashlight.

9

I COME FROM THE BEARS.

ONE OF MY EARLIEST MEMORIES IS OF THE BEARS TEACHING ME HOW TO CATCH SALMON WITH MY TEETH.

FAMILY CONDITIONS WERE BEAR-LIKE.

MY PERCEPTION OF THE WORLD WAS SHAPED BY BEARS.

THE PEOPLE WITH THE GREATEST INFLUENCE ON ME WERE ACTUALLY BEARS.

MY FAVORITE PLACE AS A CHILD WAS THE HIBERNATION CAVE.

I AM USUALLY MISSING THE BEARS.

PEOPLE WOULD DESCRIBE ME AS MISSING THE BEARS.

MY PHYSICAL APPEARANCE IS FURRY.

I LIKE TO WEAR BEAR COUTURE. MY STYLE IS BEARISH.

THESE FIVE PEOPLE’S OPINIONS ARE IMPORTANT TO ME: BEAR, BEAR, BEAR, BEAR AND BEAR.

TEN THINGS THAT ARE TRUE FOR ME NOW:

  1. I WAS RAISED BY BEARS.

  2. BEARS ARE MY FAMILY.

  3. BEARS ARE THE ONLY BEINGS I TRUST.

  4. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FUNCTION IN HUMAN SOCIETY.

  5. I CAN SLEEP FOR SIX MONTHS.

  6. I CAN EAT SALMON STRAIGHT FROM A RIVER AND FEEL DANDY.

  7. I HAVE SIGNIFICANTLY MORE BODY HAIR THAN THE AVERAGE HUMAN.

  8. I WISH I WERE A BEAR.

  9. BEARS ARE SOFT. AND

  10. I CAN CLIMB A TREE

IN THE NEXT YEAR, I WOULD LIKE TO BE REUNITED WITH THE BEARS.

IN FIVE YEARS, I SEE MYSELF WITH THE BEARS. IN TEN YEARS, WITH THE BEARS. IN TWENTY YEARS, WITH DIFFERENT BEARS.

IN MY DARKEST FEARS, I AM AFRAID THAT I WILL NEVER REUNITE WITH THE BEARS.

MY BIGGEST DREAM IS TO BE A BEAR.

IF MY DREAMS COME TRUE, I WILL BE A BEAR.

8 - November Requiem

Red this dawn, red the mountains, the stars

like pokes through skin to meat. Morning

color that sailors warn against before

returning to land to escape weather. But this –

this is no weather. Blood spilt from no cloud

but our own machine. And are the rivers red?

The firstborn sons, queer, already claimed? And what

of our daughters? Their lovers? Let us hope,

now, when we walk forth, the seas will part. This

is the country of old men and a worse man’s dream.

Here, rip the newspaper at your breast, your eye,

your threatened gender. Let us feel shame that the trees

stand witness to such smallness. If we will bleed,

how much wider will the wound be when it carves

through land? Water, red. Oil, red. Forest, red. Read

the warnings and yet, hate rose like a bloated sun

while we sat heavily with TV screens blinking

like the light thrown out from a dead star. I promise

 I will hold you and I know you will hold me. These

arms, not steel but bone and skin, are the slender

pillars that could still be a country. If a light breaks, not red,

but any other color, violet, brown, white, unsayable blue,

let me hold it, cherish it like a newborn child, in my eye.

Grant us, but for a minute, the gift of vision so that we may see

us crossed over the fire, in the land of a better color, a thunderous love. 

7 - DTs

DTs are some sort of confusion like delirium tremens or d. trumpens that can really trumpet themselves when any sort of something happens getting weird geared serious around seventy years

of age but sometimes there is early onset. Either way what happens is like right now how the world is in the aftershocking transition into a new era

where a series of confused earthquakes makes for a new error of Holy Roman roadway. Or to

make a fairer era get off the road, hey, and let’s get some crab soup on this rainy day

stretching to halt these DTs like we gotta throttle the weather how we want it to be how

production on Sunny Isles Beach started and stopped around 2009. We’ll start it up again and

cameras will not be allowed at the pool but a lot of bottles and look at this image! When

our construction of a money-factory didn’t pan out we stopped play

to make a plan for a new golden way while playing football soccer with a coconut our salamander

souls readjusted to the holes in the new numbers stealing away in our ongoing numb bet also

the dehydrated cucumber feeling of inevitability let us leave the redbelly music play while we were

gone the jack-hammer stopped started jackhammering. Humility got jackhammered.

In the humidity an old frog croaked in an older palm and oldish snowbirds yammered near a nude beach a partially finished hotel lingered in its yo-yo humility an unsold sunburn shadow

scaffolding above the ocean of bigger waves than usual. That always moving thing inside us

got stuck up the tree with a pollywog. Penumbras. We both tried to pee in the surf a feeling of

what reassures but didn’t tell one another. Afterwards we walked the dog, never noticing

the mutating or tiny seizures

trying to tell us another tsunami was on its way. We didn’t tell one another, we saw one another as treasures.

We decided to stop using terror but somehow it came out anyway.

6 - IN DEFERENCE TO THE RUEFUL NIGHT

Just stepped out of the office

to purchase a sandwich

from Ohare's Kosher Delicatessen

& was crossing the Curt

Schilling Memorial Bridge

when an unsuccessful jumper

clambered back up the side,

the river basin dry as denial.

She was about nineteen

parents both relapsed alcoholics,

boyfriend neanderthal violative.

She consented to join me

for coffee and sandwiches. We sat

near an air conditioner and talked.

I got her a taxi home agreeing

to meet the next day, but never

saw her again. Double checked all

the nostalgic skylines I could find.

5 - A CARTOGRAPHERS PANDERING TO SCALE

Note the well worn hand holds

close to the side's pockets of

that which is not somnolent

nor sleep deprived or deterred,

just half studied by interns

and left for dead.

Reviled by the more serious

hands across the water types.

Sustenance like pools of gratitude.

He needs simplicity more

than she needs proteins,

and barters successfully for an edge.

That sail mistaken for a moving van

protruded above the conifers

which are about the only plants

that will grow crowded here.

4 - A Mistress's "Dear John" Letter to America

I woke this morning

feeling less full of want:

a solitude of space

A capsized vessel

may recover on its own

I begin at Alakea n Nimitz

1 minute earlier.

I didn’t see you there,

crossing over lines

Didn’t you order it

on the side?

I wanted to spoon again,

against slanted sounds

of words—fake or real:

Staying with the boat

can help. I don’t know

the words I needed delivered

but I could have hummed along.

And I hate kari-oke.

This morning, I was running

16 minutes late:

my faith is more hollowed

than your blindness.

There are no survivors’

instructions because a black box

flipped inside-out is not solitude.

I press my lips together.

The weather chaps everything now.

-line credit: Emily Dickinson’s “There’s a solitude of space”

3 - "There & Back Again: Dystopia is now, America."

2

while I lied

in my sweat

on the backyard patio,

the breath I breathed hard

then fading. it is winter

still. yesterday, the sun lost

its gilt, caught without

its gold in a fog, become just

a coin whose glint is

gone the moment I look

it in the face—

yes, the geese called

flying, but the fog rolled

the gold off

their wings; yes, lake reeds

lined the highway, but the fog

spilled their gold

in a breeze; yes, blue was between

a ridgeline & a fold,

but the fog forgot

the sky’s gold spiraling

up the horizon; yes, weeping

pine in the garden

was weeping long

before, but the fog

chased the gold

on the breasts of the robins

who now have left

their eggs & left their nest;

yes, a star & another

sparkled, but the fog hid

up their beams & grabbed

their black & grabbed their gold

& gave the night a grey

garb, the moon split: its gold

gone too, its silver

& copper, its shadow.

to hear the geese

calling now, to see

the gold they fly to.

1 - catapult

what of gold when we have dropped the ball / what of fashion when we have slit throats / what of dawn when we have smothered the night / what of wine when our boots on one another's necks / what of warm fire in winter when we have drones / what of square meals when we, our mouths full, yelling / what of a live symphony when we can hear the wall being built (jack hammers & oboes) / what of making sweet love beneath the fallout / what of wars on terror when violence is domestic / what of your grandmother's quilt when the new jim crow / what of saunas & Japanese loose leaf over our eyes when limbs sever, catapult across the foggy bay /

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