Manifestos: A Prose Poem by Wes Bishop

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“Who runs the world?” I ask because I have complaints. The little man tells me the box for such things is down the hall. I stumble, clutching my manifestos. If only the masses would read these typed blueprints for utopia then the world would work, because I am a mechanic for reality!

I get to the box, but it is closed. The sign reads—

UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

SEE WEBSITE FOR DETAILS.

 

So, I tweet.

I post.

I comment

and I yelp.

 

I set my phone to vibrate text alert so if anyone comments their digital voice will trip the invisible wire I have set.

Ding– 1 Comment,

Finally, comrades!

Ding— 2 Comments,

YES! They can join—

Ding, Ding, Ding— 3 Comments

— MY REVOLUTION!

I open the comments like a child tearing at wrapping paper…

“Who voted for this asshole!!!,” one comment reads. “BITCH PLEASSSSSSSEEEEEE! Sit yo fucking-turtle-looking ass down somewhere!,” another retorts. “You is lame!!! #SuckIt MOTHER FUCKER!!!” another says.

I chase those comments with my words. Chase in futility the vulgarity of worldwide mass expression. The little man behind the desk laughs. “What’s so funny?!” I shout. “Nothing, our complaint box is just finally working.” I look. There I am, reduced to a wooden statue taking complaints and handing out smoke.

 

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LILITH: PERCHED IN SILENCE by Moriah M. Mylod

In my dreams we were in Charleston imagining apparitions and clowns

I wonder how we could devise plans to become ghosts together in a tourist town to scare off kids and lovers alike

And seeing how they still wanted us around even

The devil horned

The pale-blue eyed

The predatorial smiles

The dirty skinned

 

A Murder of Crow,

A Flight of Snow Geese

In Winter’s frigid manner

Their feet lifting off from the ground into a frightening flight

Wings whirring in the wind

To a bleakness up above

With a singled eye

Blindfolded

 

To be, but afar from the clashing & clamoring of the flock

To be, but still, quiet…beautiful-alone in the dark

Only to listen to a drop of water from the mental spigot running smoothly and softly across the rusted pipe of every dream you ever thought you were part of

To a childhood in the dust of Poe’s dream

Today’s sour hour is now,

Returning to The Higher

To begin again

Still, quiet…beautiful-together in the dark

 

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Mixed Media by MMM

DARK MATTERS: SCHIZOPHRENIA by Moriah M. Mylod

Satan’s in the sole of my left shoe

We are having a confetti conversation now

The words from your lips are bursting in colors of blue, yellow and red

Floating pieces that never hit the ground

Zenu is my mother

Her ship will be here any minute

To drop off money just in time for the birth of my baby Jesus

The CIA is onto me, they hear and see everything I do and say

Are you listening?

WE ARE NOT CONNECTED,

WE ARE NOT CONNECTED

There is a funeral every evening at the head of my bed…

But no one cares to bring flowers to diffuse the stench of blood that seeps out of both my ears.

And I’m born every morning at the foot of my bed….

But no one bothers to bring me a blankets for my wet, cold, sopping body.

So how many times do I have to tell you doctor before you put me out?

Satan is in the sole of my left shoe

So please, take me out…

Take me out.

And off.

This hell road that goes on into infinity

This hell is desolate, deserted and noisy

This veil between here and there

Has already thinned.

When will someone fly me through the rosy scented moon door

On a blanket made of orange stars and black skies with my little baby Jesus?

It will happen you see because we are all connected.

WE ARE NOT CONNECTED,

WE ARE NOT CONNECTED

“Oh, Silent Night
Oh, Holy Night
Not all is calm
Not all is bright
Round yon virgin
Mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace” and don’t feel as though you have smile

Merry Christmas.

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Mixed Media by MMM