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.
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.