Burden Baby – Putholi Arumugham

Were you born
ever to be a burden.
Then for your mom,
at her lap.
Now for me
in my heart.

My Baby – Shastina McElmurry

my baby is in heaven above.
i knew god will give him lots of love.
god took my baby from me.
i cried a deep blue sea.
he can never be replaced.
the truth might as well be faced.
His name was sox
he looked so cute in his box.
he was my best friend
he was there tell the end
my dog was the night and day of my life.
i still cry in the night
i just need some light.

Baby – Viola Pinkosky

When you were created, I knew I had found it.
The angel face, and beauty all around it.
Your heart is a creation of wonder.
And, how you came to be, I still ponder.

But, Lilly, you are the joy of my day.
A miracle, in each and every way.
With a beautiful light to your eyes,
like your mother’s: stars in the skies.

Like the flower you are named,
may you never be tamed.
Your life is too free.

The Sisters – Terence Winch

One sister is leaving for Sweden.
Two sisters are arguing in the living room
while a third sister makes furtive
phone calls from the bathroom.
Another sister has died.

The sisters are all beautiful.
They knit, they cook, they write
books about the meaning
of life. They always look
good, even on a bad day.

Even the word sister is
insistent. Some sisters live
in a convent, some lie naked
on a bed in a dark room,
waiting for a caress.
They dress and undress
twenty times a day.

If I had a wish it would be
to have been there on the day
my sisters caught a giant fish
in Florida, and afterwards
began beautiful lives of
mystery in the female
universe, where the laws
of science are known to sway.

My Work – Terence Winch

In my work, at any given point,
the great issues of identity politics
and dialectical absolutism assume
a tight coherence, a profoundly
threatening total awareness
by which I seek to mediate
the conflict between meaning
and the extremes of deconstruction.

I never strike a false note
I believe in savvy artistic
incandescence as a constitutive
enhancement of racy sexuality,
all as a way to examine the
necessity of self-love.

It’s always dangerous to underestimate
my work. I insult the intellectual
dignity of the French. They arrive
in my brightly colored landscape
right after quitting time only to discover
an empty stage set in which all the clueless
actors have wandered off to an installation
of obsolete Marxist sloganeering.

Yeats was deeply immersed in mythology
and so am I. T. S. Eliot preferred Dante
to Shakespeare, but I don’t. Charles Bernstein
loves the way my sentences decompose.
John Ashbery will read my work only
while naked. Everything I do is the pure
output of brains, speed, and skill.

A couple of weeks ago, I digested
Aristotle. I found him to be electrifyingly
ahistorical, and he has now been subsumed
into my work. I have open-ended stratagems
when it comes to the Germans, particularly
Goethe and Kant. They live now in my
imagination. I go way beyond alienation
into a new synthesis of desire and content.

My work stands for something invisible,
something inner. I attempt to explain
the risk of appearing. Foucault would know
how well my work succeeds in revealing
the discourse between power and structure.
When you read my work, you may think
“simile” and “metaphor,” but what you really
get is the storm, the dark mansion, the servant
girl standing alone in Columbus Circle.

Triumph and loss permeate my work.
People should try to pick up on that.
My technical virtuosity is unrivaled.
Don’t talk to me about subject matter.
My work takes “narrative” and turns
it into whatever happened. In my work,
“story” becomes language contemplating
its own articulation in a field of gesture.

There is a higher reality at play in my work.
Sacred memories resonate with perceptual
knowledge of the body as primal text. Yet
my work is never subservient to the dominant
ideology. It circulates warmly and freely
through all variable channels. My work
is like the furniture you so much want to
sink into, but must wait as it wends its way
from distant points in a giant moving truck
screeching across the country
to your new home.

Fishbowl  – Terence Winch

I can’t think of anything else
to talk with you about. We have
discussed our jobs, our daily commute,
the foods we like and don’t like.
You have ordered wine. I get a Pepsi.
People have died. We acknowledge that.
We’re here and they’re not. You get up
early. I get up late. I want to tell you
that I see your special dead person still,
mostly in the subway. She was wonderful.
Your new girlfriend is also a gem. How is
it possible to love people who no longer
exist? But they’re everywhere, coming
and going in the world of the dead
as though they haven’t torn us in pieces
with their absence. They observe us
intently. We are fish in a fishbowl to them.
They watch from afar while we struggle to swim.

Morning Prayers – Terence Winch

Old people cry too much.
They walk in the morning
to the railway station.
Their hearts are breaking.

You can be old on the inside
or old on the outside.
Your heart can beat like
the heart of a young dog.

The railway has been closed
for years. The tracks end
in the middle of nowhere.
Old people get the senior discount.

When God was young our hearts
were on fire with our love
for him. He too is now an idiot
and we scorn his heartless ways.