Tomorrowby David M. HarryTomorrow by Beatgoliath
Matthew and August went to the beach on a sunny afternoon. He wore his favorite, blue beach shorts printed with a map of the West Indies and she wore her favorite, sunburst bikini. The weather was very warm, but the sand was cool on their feet as they walked along the shore. A little breeze caused the palm trees to sway in a syncopated rhythm. Seagulls glided on that breeze over the ocean as they searched for fish. In the distance, a sea lion roared like an angry trumpet. As Matthew and August walked in the sand, there were children running away from the cold ocean waves reaching for their little feet. An old man, whose face had many wrinkles and interesting stories, flew a simple kite he probably made himself.
The heavy sun burdened with the weight of warm day began to sink into the endlessness of the ocean’s deep. The light became thick, atmospheric, and heavy with warning that it was time to leave.
For My BrotherBy David M. HarryFor My Brother by Beatgoliath
I remember him waking me up by punching me
I remember we never agreed on anything—not even videogames
I remember he could never beat me in a race around our block
But most of all, I remember he and mom getting into the car on Saturdays
I remember he was the best student in math out of all of us
I remember he took such pride in helping me pass my tests
I remember the teacher said he was the model student
But most of all, I remember the day the ambulance came to our school
I remember reading him stories when he had trouble sleeping at night
I remember holding the tubes when he had to throw up
I remember how cold his skin felt when we shook hands before I had to leave
But most of all, I remember the long beep that wouldn’t stop
I remember everyone saying nice things about my brother
I remember the tears that limped down my face
I remember the casket where his body lay
But most of all, I remember the dirt that filled his grave.
i'm cold, could you pass me a blanket?my kindergarten teacherWhyles
told me there were flowers in my soul.
too bad it's always autumn;
dead inside of me.
the garden is a crumbled heap,
and my heart suffocates
beneath the leaves.
there's no salvation for moths in your world.when i was in middle schoolWhyles
my art teacher told me that in abstract paintings
warm colors are laid over cool, and especially neutral, colors.
so when i sat atop the back table
and splattered my dusk blue tears of flimsy watercolor paints
atop the sickening yellow i despised so much,
she scolded me and put me out of her class
when i told her i didn't want to be kandinsky
and that she didn't know shit about art.
but i couldn't help but think about her
on my way to the hospital.
so tell me, ms. bame, am i killing myself right,
smothering ivory wrists with crimson stains?
would you let me stay in your class now,
hang me up in the art case?
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksWhyles
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
can be the painter,
paint words on my lips.
will be the writer
and write kisses on your skin.
i'm not going to lie and say she was perfect.her skin was spotted with what she passed off as freckles,Whyles
but what were really scars from a thousand summer suns
as she ran about outside,
climbing trees and treading rivers,
pretending to be an american bomber
in the midst of WWII.
she kept crimson stains on pearl pink lips,
which always had the habit of getting on her teeth
because she put on make-up after dressing in her car
and ordering coffee in every way she hated it
as she drove to the record store three times a day,
ignoring her job downtown.
she owned four and a half hairbrushes exactly,
i took count on the first night i stepped into that whirl-wind room,
though her lopsided up-dos of messy blonde hair revealed just how much her fingers
never broke the dust.
she had these lovely fragile hands
that showed each and every vein and bone,
the type of hands made for tearing boys like me apart.
how could i have even expected to survive,
a paper poet
held against a reckless flame?