Long Hours
My shirt is worn
Stained maybe
Droplets
Shade
dark
Bags fill my eyes
Bags fill my hands
Bags even fill my scalp -
consistently occupying time
Ahead is a clock
broken perhaps
for it never moves forward
Welcome to _________
only backwards really
hands move
tick tock
forward backward
Tick back tock
¿Why?
does it
Produce, Line 1,,,
mean that
I am working negatively?
or perhaps I don't
Produce Line 1 Please
know analog.
All I see are hands
whose????????
and voices asking prices
interrupting my
Delivery for Grocery
line of thought.
How long
have I been here
?
How long
has this belt
conveyed forward
and forward?
Can they -
Bakeryyyyyy, Line 4
Could they
at least
provide
a bed for me to try
rather than sleep in chairs
Awful Awful Plastic Awful Awful Damn Awful Awful Chairs
of the break room?
seventy-eight forty five is your change
"have a wonderful day!"
My shirt is worn
Bags fill my eyes
Bags fill my carcass
My shirt is worn
My shirt is
My shirt
worn
out.
An Encounter
Blood spilled today - rivers painted the asphalt screaming for first response: bodies ripped apart as if mangled by wild boars; broken cadavers splattered, seeking consolation from Earth. Throughout - charred images of leather bound books and pamphlets too scrunched in to see. There: atop bones, brains, and blood Men screamed murder as their glares pointed daggers overtaken by madness convicted to war for the liberation of sinners' souls, these Men kill in sight of That Above for that is their calling. Beneath the sun overhead Men charge one another till their death- thus goes another day religious followings in parking lots bump again
Echoes of a Still Life at a Park
The clouds hugged the falling sun
just ss the fresh air held our bodies -
there we were, in the light of gray
overlooking scattered ponds of tall grass
and, behind, reminding such grass lessons of humility,
stood trees that wrote sonnets to the sun they touch.
They grow and are grown to provide homes
and, perhaps, hideouts
To all the various living beings struggling for morsels.
off the path the armadillo seeks restlessly
another bite to ail its hardened stomach;
in the corner of the eye, the hare bolts
rushing what it fears could be the gun -
but is merely a camera, training itself to its skull.
A pathway tears their village in half.
Imposed on them for purposes of convenience
the pathways are gray soulless slabs -
camouflaged with local colors
Perhaps the hare asks the armadillo
for what purposes does this exist?
It exposes to dangers and is rough to rest
Perhaps the armadillo seeks nuance
finding something positive to soothe the pain
the belly from hunger makes
Perhaps the turtle, off, in the pond nearby
does not acknowledge the existence of the path
for the path does not intrude its home.
The sun continues to fall, hiding itself
from performing all day.
It must bee exhausting, to illuminate -
to shine and radiate warmth,
it is no wonder the sun
defeated
hides back beneath the peripheral line.
What keeps the sun going? While the clouds
take over the dance at times, the sun
shines and performs day in, day out/
Is it the romances? The songs of
roosters, the poetry of oaks, the verses of
endless leaves harmonizing with the solar rays?
The gray begins to set in -
fireflies begin their work shift
and as we see the mystery of the
wonders of existence cycles and cycles ago
as we see a glimpse of the terrain of our world
as we interact in harmony with this field
we see
we hear
we feel the need to overcome finality
different than before
different than before
About the Writer: Carlos Campos Jr (they/them) is a Chicanx (pronounced chee-cahn-eh) poet. They were born and live in Texas but their home is in Monterrey, and is a founding member of the Houston DSA Arts Collective. Their work can be found in the Houston Review of Books, where they debuted. One can find Carlos on Instagram as @CompaPoeta. They’re always open to messages, whether it be poetry or random discussion.
Houston Review Of Books 