Yellow powders the city, sidewalks can’t get clean. Car windows mirror sugar cookie flakes, if sugar cookies were dyed in toxic hues.
C’est aujourd’hui Pacques. I celebrate not for scripture nor for dogmatic threats upon one’s everlasting life. You have your faith in a happy ending, I have my faith in my soul’s work and the atoms of the universe, which after much mass spectrometer scraping, look the same as yours. It’s the flavor that differs. Are you a sweet and sour choir mixed with delicate notes of pomegranate? Am I a light yet sharp vixen glazed with ornate strands of amaretto?
I wrote the following poem several months ago and was going to submit it to an online literary sports publication but decided to put it here instead.
It was his soul’s work to amass millions,
to be in a mass of millions.
He marched w/ men, sat among crimson red,
and endured the stings of technology-minded jackets.
It was his soul’s work to best his shadow,
to be the best in gathering battle.
He swung disqus plates and javelin lace,
all covering a summer mile.
It was his soul’s work to out-sail the dolphins,
to sail out beyond blue lagoons.
He took to the seas like gulls and seals,
and traversed latitude circles.
It was his soul’s work to mend bones,
to be in the middle of blood broken.
He waltzed, dug, and bowed nightly
to the mothers of the young.
— yiqi 22 november 2015 6:52 pm
Meanwhile, Bleacher Report on why NFL ran “safety” ads around a Wall Street Journal article about concussions. A few of the comments pointed to boxing, MMA, and rugby, sports that involve just as much possibility, probability, and inevitability for physical injury yet aren’t in public opinion cross-hairs like the NFL.