Jupiter

Cosmic Staves

by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

The Hum Drums

by Alayna Merchlewitz

There was a time, not long ago,
each day I had to check
if my soul was housed in me
or abandoned this mortal wreck

My innards doused in darkness
a numbness head to toe;
life itself lacked luster
I knew not where to go

Despite this core confusion
I knew I had a spirit;
but I had sadly acquiesced
in my inability to hear it

For, you see, this darkness
which shrouded all my limbs
was not paired with silence:
its oft-conjoined twin

Instead, my night, my confidant,
my misery-inducing friend,
was accompanied with a cacophony
of blaring shrieks which would not end

This stewing cauldron of my mind
brewed bubbles that howled and blared
these boiling musings filling me
with self-pitying hot air

Sloshing sloppily inside my scalp
a screaming soup of ruminations;
its liquid drowned my tender thoughts
squandering inner-lumination

With my reeling repetitions
I felt more useless than the dead
because, l believed:
“At least spoiled flesh
nourishes the soil in its stead!”

My deepest regrets on repeat:
the thoughts of things unsaid,
the lovers lost,
the heartaches felt,
since I screwed it up again

A record-player skipping
scratching questions to no end;
asking:
“Who should I be?”
“Why is this me?”
“When did I choose this Misery for my friend?”

For oh so long this was my hell
adrift within my night
I could not tell up from down
no guiding source of light

Any strategy that I could see
for finding my salvation
was squandered by shrieking reprises
of self-flagellation

Eventually I knew
I could not take this anymore
“I’d rather feed the worms and plants
than put up with these roars!”

But then before I violently
silenced the cackling chorus
I sighed: “What else am I to lose?”
so I verbalized my horrors

I had not done this act before
I never had the gall
for what tumbled out my mouth that day
were my scariest truths of all

I’d told others of my sadnesses
of my unending woes;
but I had not told them
of the Me
I abandoned long ago

My dreams unmanifested,
the desires too far to reach;
so when I freed this part of me
I prepared to hear a screech

There I sat, bracing myself
for the hellish sound to come;
instead
I heard a steady thump
resembling a drum

This bass was so nostalgic!
I heard it years before!
I recognized it as my soul
emanating from my core.

I felt each faint
rum
pum
pum
pum

I wanted to hear more.

So, unabashedly
I freed the Me
that in the dark did hide;
unfiltered and unapologetic:
the Resurrection of what had died

For three days I rambled on about
the Me lost in the night
and all the while
my war drums swelled
readying for a fight

My soul shook metronomically
in hearty reverberations
the rhythm that tore through me
began to clear my infestation

The useless cackles I once heard
began to flee like roaches
running for dusky reprieve
when a beam of light approaches

Still I heard that familiar howl:
“You’re of less use than the dead!”
but it was a gutless echo
its source severed at the head

I knew that this devilish blight
could come back at any time
my earthly home’s infrastructure
was deeply compromised

To speak my truth was not enough
the drums would dim down like before
I had to march to its sound
lest I crumble to the floor

I took a step to my left
which ceased the rhythmic raps
because that’s where I came from:
a sure-fire misery relapse

So then, stepped right:
an unpaved road
one which seemed absurd
cause that was where I wished to go;
I never did what I preferred!

Ah, the drums resumed!!
Then, twinkling bells
shimmered to their beat;
that’s when I began to trust
the direction of my feet

Each step that way
made me feel strange
I knew not where it led
but I knew
this music was in lieu
for a desire to be dead

That’s where I speak these words to you:
marching that unpaved road.
I hear my steps so clearly now
freed of that mental load

My cold dark world
a lonely place
I dare never revisit
although I will be honest:

some moments I do miss it.

There’s a safety in that sadness;
it’s soothing to seem so small;
such terrifying potential
beyond those echoing, padded walls

I know too well
how that old pain
seems numbingly therapeutic

but I dare not
miss a second
of my soul’s heavenly music

The How to Rehabilitate a Love Poet

by Casey Aimer

Lock me and my love poems
inside a utopian museum exhibition
encased entirely with polished mirrors.
Seeing myself reflected, encircled
within love is my natural habitat.

Since love is the sole fodder of my art
and there is only myself left to love
I’ll starve with a diet of self-cannibalism.

When all that’s leftover are one liners
and Hollywood ideals of romance
lead me to a door named Room 101.
Padlock my heart open for surgery.

Every personal moment is not public domain. Love poets are terrible laborers of love.
Fantasies do not exist outside my head.
Practiced lips are untrustworthy. Love lines can’t be reused as necessary.
Each person is not a love poem waiting to be written.
World works in nuance not grand gestures. People fall in love with my poems not me.

When I emerge I’ll wonder why
I thought love was special because
it was already inside me and
no one put it there.

When I relapse, do
not take me back in.
Let me live with new
constitutional love.

If I am half
what I should be
call me trenches.

Name me plate tectonics
without rest. One day I
will be convergent again.

Evening Observations - Perhaps We'll Swim One

by John Laue

Perhaps we’ll swim one
Special evening in a
Cool deep purple sea.