Brad G Garber

Viral

 

Floating around

like a molecular cloud

 

hidden in spring flowers

wings of birds

leaves of artichoke

faces    cloth

 

things eaten     touched           breathed

 

a Trojan army at the door

vortex unfelt   unseen untasted

 

a pair of shoes full of venom

razor blade pants

shirt of rose thorns

 

maybe

 

in your nose    mouth  heart    lungs

blood

 

until you are overrun by a million ants

carried into gaping

tunnels to feed the young

through winter

 

a thousand invisible punches

to the head

 

knocking you prone    atmosphere

forced into your body

 

like a reluctant invader           until

 

mystery subsides.

 

 

The Sink

 

When I first gazed upon the horizon

of an ocean

saw the endless

Endless freedom

Endless hope

Endless dreams

Endless art

Endless Earth

Endless life

All the places I in my mind

 

Until the bottles

filled with piss

Styrofoam

plastic grocery bags

six-pack rings

straws

bags

my unused medications

inorganic detritus

filling the guts

guts of fish

guts of whales

guts of humans

guts of minds

Every vista one

of disguised beauty

floating in planetary

trash.

 

Brad G Garber

Brad has degrees in biology, chemistry and law. He writes, paints, draws, photographs, and hunts for mushrooms and snakes in the Great Northwest. Since 1991, he has published poetry, essays and weird stuff in such publications as Edge Literary Journal, Pure Slush, Front Range Review, Tulip Tree Publishing, Sugar Mule, Third Wednesday, Barrow Street, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Barzakh Magazine, Ginosko Journal, Junto Magazine, Slab, Panoplyzine, Split Rock Review, Smoky Blue Literary Magazine, The Offbeat and other quality publications. 2011, 2013 & 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee.

Memorial Day During Covid We Watch a Music Group Perform on TV

Beautiful.  These rock band boys, giddy as pups given an open field. So pumped.

Drumbeats loud as amplified hearts.  Muscled and optimistic, they can meet anything head on.

 

Years ago they’d have marched off to Vietnam, skinny and scared. Helmets and camouflage.

Shell shocked or blasted.  Names etched on a wall.

 

Some of those boys, like Jesse, made it to Montreal. Guitars in hand, they held us close

in coffee houses and open mics. The war distant over the border.

 

They’re  older now. Faces softened, almost female. Youth settled around their middles

like memories that won’t let go.

 

And of the ones drafted who came back, some sleep on sidewalks

while next door my neighbor just wants to shoot every damned poppy on the block.

 

Babo Kamel

Originally from Montreal, Babo Kamel now resides in Florida. Her work is published in literary reviews in the US, Australia, and Canada including the Greensboro Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Lines + Stars, and most recently in Poet Lore. She holds an MFA from Warren Wilson’s Program for Writers, is a Best of Net nominee, and a six-time Pushcart nominee. Her chapbook, After, is published with Finishing Line Press. Find her at babokamel.com She has a poem forthcoming in Best Canadian Poetry 2020

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