White Cross and Infrared by Nelson Smith

White Cross

I walk along the National Mall. Peace and solitude at last, I look toward the alabaster temples

that illuminate with hegemonic brilliance. A vast power structure, its framework as glaring as

Venus in the night, conceals the combined memories of imperial architects projecting their

immortal light upon hopeless steel giants of slave labor. From the hive-minded U.S. Capitol,

where two rival cults meet, four elegant building blocks--granite, marble, limestone, and

sandstone--form a white cross stretching more than two miles, head pointing west. But why west and not north? Maybe the answer is the same reason the Lincoln Memorial is the most popular attraction at the National Mall. It’s simple really. Lincoln is anti-slavery, but the United States is pro-slavery just about everywhere else. The National Mall is the true land of the free, but outside, you’ll need some kind of currency. The white cross is the birth of Western Civilization, of liberty and sensation itself. But it isn’t totally white. All stones are shades of grey, but the White House seems to be the blackest stone of all. Is Trump really going to take away our freedom? Yeah, right! As long as Washington sits at the center of the white cross, Trump’s not the center of the universe. When I gaze at the White House’s abject, grassless exterior from Washington’s perspective, I’m sure he’d be disappointed, too. Washington’s legacy, however, stands in two hues, a symbol of a divided nation. Thomas Jefferson hides his bronze character away in his porcelain palace, his staunch, testosterone tongue severed from the American congregation. Martin Luther King Jr. emerges from the stone of hope to challenge his foe across the Tidal Basin, the true beacon of hope. The white cross is a lie, and therefore the centerpiece of this nation. The highlight of my day came at sunset when Venus and Washington convened, their light guiding my way back home.

Cats yowl, scream, and scratch;

dogs bark at the neighbors; and

pigs get barbecued.

Infrared

You saw colored auras of people, and I saw colors in black letters.

You claimed to see the future, but I didn’t believe it, until too late.

I didn’t believe one could see the future, until you showed me.

You freestyled your own rap lyrics, and I played blues scales at eight.

With your freestyled rap lyrics, we would’ve made hit albums by twenty-two.

Your stories were so benthic, and I consumed the oysters of your narration.

The oysters of your narration were more benthic than I could consume.

You passed around earthy flowers, but writing was my true medicine.

You gave me magic, earthy flowers, which enhanced my writing as medicine.

You enjoyed my awkward punchlines, and we laughed at mules in Carolina Squats.

You enjoyed our mutual endeavor most before I was another awkward punchline.

You conversed about your past heartaches, and I was a long-winded encyclopedia.

We conversed about past heartaches before it felt like a long-winded encyclopedia.

You saw colored auras in dull people, and I saw many colors in dull letters.

Nelson R. Smith is an aspiring autistic writer with humble beginnings in Jacksonville, North Carolina. As an East Carolina University master's student in English, Nelson aims to represent neurodivergent voices with inventive, never-ending, world-changing forces of prose and poetry. Nelson has previously published creative nonfiction in Nude Bruce Review.

"What Dark, Foreign Wind?" by Jason Ryberg

What Dark, Foreign Wind?

A small, incandescent butterfly, at the center

of a crossroads in a dream that

we can’t quite tell whether it’s going to be good or

bad, yet. What dark, foreign wind brought

you to us and where

will it be

taking

you

next?

Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-two books of

poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full

of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could

one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless

love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-

residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted

P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an

editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is “Bullet Holes

in the Mailbox (Cigarette Burns in the Sheets) Back of the

Class Press, 2024)).”

"Less Than I’d Hoped For / More Than I Cared For", "Passing Through the Eye of a Snowflake", and "Rain and Then" by Jason Ryberg"

Less Than I’d Hoped For / More Than I Cared For

So

far,

things have

turned out a

little differently

than I thought they would: no real, huge

complaints (I’ve been weirdly lucky, I guess), probably

the usual – less than you’d hoped for / more than

you cared for – maybe a little bit more

of what some guys get and a lot less of what gets left

behind when they’re done picking through

the choicest cuts, but

hey, we’re not

here to

get

down

in

the

mud of

covetous-

ness and resentment

or stir up any trouble that

doesn’t need stirring, so let’s just take stock in what we

have, count our blessings, be thankful and all that

crap and get back to work, people.

Passing Through the Eye

of a Snowflake

They say to reach the

calm at the center of the

hurricane, first you

must pass through the eye of a

snowflake (or something like that).

Rain and Then

Rain

on a tin roof

(down by

the river),

and then

it turns to hail,

which in-turn

makes sleeping hell.

Like headbones knockin,’

knucklebones poppin,’

footbones hoppin.’

And what was it

Brother Leghorn

used to tell the kids—

I say, I say,

more noise

than a couple o’ skeletons

pitchin’ a fit

on a tin roof

that is

the rain

the hail

on a tin roof

(that is).