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The Melissa Harris-Perry Show
By Clara B. Jones
QuailBellMagazine.com “Why then the world's mine oyster, / Which I with sword will open.” William Shakespeare (The Merry Wives of Windsor) I am a Public Progressive, but Capitalism has been very good to me. If MSNBC were not in the picture, my profile would still be high. A mulatto wearing cornrows is as American as a Camaro, and my Ph.D. doesn't hurt. The only thing holding me back is the pressure to maintain “street cred”, and making race central to every subject on the show also doesn't help. I was taught the value of Neo-Marxism in graduate school, and every segment convinces me that Class and Gender are as important as Race. But my hands are tied by the black version of p.c. I cater to “the black community”, the 11 million or so underclass who control the conversation, including my weekly drama. My mother taught me every white girl's trick in the book, so I can switch any conversation by summoning the optimal register of emotions in order to get my way. Don't cross me or else I will shoot you down or silence you, methods I perfected by watching Reverend Al. Neither of us wants to offend the Military-Industrial-Social Complex that has led us to the White House and beyond. “Rev” spoke to the British Parliament, and I would like to meet Kate Middleton one day, knowing by birthright not to touch the body of a royal person. My husband advised me not to let my head get too big, but he is just jealous and knows better than to push me too far. I have busted my butt to get where I am, and well-orchestrated controversy keeps me in the news. As long as I maintain control of my fawning guests and of my practiced performances, God's Will will insure that the sky is my limit.
#Unreal #Poetry #Satire #Gender #Media #Mainstream #Society #Politics
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S. Wish
Words & Image by Rony Nair
QuailBellMagazine.com
Keystones on the ledge,
where wisdom cannot factor in for the unexpected; the delusional, the lame duck periods. of self-doubt. of death. The best are full of doubt ridden stasis. and the worst whore their talents around the sin bin. and sell their soul to the nearest parchment to the next slutty street that we call intellectual capital. in all those pirouettes in closed office spaces there remains thoughts that cascade of life simpler. more full of the senses. and of coming home. to you. #Unreal #Poetry #Simplicity #Depth #Superficial #Love #Life Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Waiting In The DesertSunlight beats on my cheeks, Sand burns my flesh, Wind whips against my body, And yet the field is barren. I lay in desolation, My limbs impaired. I cannot move, Cannot speak, Cannot hear. Sight and touch Remain my only senses, My only freedoms. Abandoned, my heart is left to weather Seclusion from the joy given to others, But hope stays within my shell. Someone, I pray, will happen upon my corpse. A traveler in the desert, A gypsy in the night, A wanderer who, too, knows suffering. One day my desire shall arrive, With love to meet my eyes, With a kiss to give me breath, So life may surge through my veins Once more. #Unreal #Poetry #Solitude #Desert #Imagery #Faith #Love Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Two Types of PerfectDear Dr. Everett, I died 9 years ago, 6 years after the day I was born. I don’t remember what it was like to live, only that I didn’t know enough to savor it when there was still something left to remember. First grade was my last year of life, actually, so I suppose I died 8 years ago, not 9. And the funny thing about my death was that I didn’t even know I was dead until they resurrected me 3 years later. But this new life that they gave me, it wasn’t real. It was different from the snippets I remembered from the past, different from the life that God gave me, the one I wanted back. But the funny thing about this concept called death was that I got used to it. This was my one and only reality, the only one I’d ever known. The flashes of Before that I still remembered…those weren’t real, because they were just too perfect. And life wasn’t that perfect, right? If life were actually that perfect, you would’ve thought that God would give it back to a little girl who had done nothing to deserve to have it ripped from her hands. You would’ve thought that a little girl would’ve gotten to live it a little while longer. Would’ve remembered more of it. I pray every night that He or a miracle or science or just anyone will bring me back to life. To the real life, the one that everyone else gets to live, and not the unbelievable, fictional hell that has become my reality. Now some people…some people were dead before they ever lived. They were dead when they were born. They don’t know what it’s like to miss it; they don’t know what it’s like to be alive. But I was alive for more than half a decade. I know. A.A. #Unreal #Letter #Living #Perfect #HumanCondition Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sugarcoated
It was some weekend in winter.
My then boyfriend and our friends Ended up at the two-story Barnes and Nobles in the Fancy part of town. I was given the gift Of a pink-frosted owl sugar cookie with sweet eyes From the café bakery Because the friend that gave it to me knew I liked owls. I saved it in my purse for later. When I got home, I unwrapped the plastic And small pieces of it crumbled and tumbled out. When I bit into it, It fell apart.
#Unreal #SomeFrienshipsEnd #BrokenTies #ThingsFallApart #BarnesAndNoble #Cafe #Sugarcoating
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Normal Box
Don’t put me in the normal box,
my life just ain’t that way. I rather sit in the rain and watch the fairies play. Don’t put me in the paradox of two kids, a career, and a perfect house, but having no time for happiness at the end of the day. Don’t put me in a magazine, with super models bean-pole thin. I rather have boobs- the real thing, and a body I’m comfortable in. Don’t keep me from my dreams because they might seem a little far; If only in a midnight pond, I can reach the stars.
#Unreal #NormalIsBoring #Dreams #TheRealThing #BeWhoYouAre
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The Dancer
Every evening, dear girl, I return home from work to find your grandmother waiting for me at that old wooden table where a pair of large, beautiful eyes once made us a family. As I sit down, she gets up wordlessly and begins to busy herself at the stove. I confide my heaviness to the doll by your grandmother’s vacant table and she tucks them underneath her with graceful ease. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Climbing, Plum St., This Poem is Finished
By Tom Pescatore
QuailBellMagazine.com Climbing I. A short rainbow sprinkled madness run from the drone of hallucination spy the mountaineer in high wool socks, shibuya boots lined in red, heavy pack, red bandanna, leaning forward peers over edge one foot raised to peak, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Scissoring: A Supernatural Love Story
Closing behind my entrance as it had opened momentarily to accept me, the door disappeared into a tangle of ivy; the dense and neglected walled garden before me drowsing, seducing, almost lightless. I wait a moment just inside the entrance and listen to the sudden stillness, feeling at once fearful of its dark nature yet strangely comforted by its protection. The rowan tree by the gate was, I suspect, most likely planted there to ward off witches or bad spirits. Beneath it sits an ancient stone bench, its chipped and eroded top covered with various cracked clay pots and saucers. Amidst the terra-cotta and lichened jumble I spot the rusted blades of a small pair of garden scissors. I pick them up, surprised they still open and close, their function long since supplanted by a sad and final relinquishment. |