My corruption Where were you when I was fighting my corruption? Were you shopping downtown for new shoes? I was busy showering the judges with money, but they constantly refuse to indict me. My corruption is deep and long-lasting. You’ve known about it for years. You should tell the prosecutors, the police. They should arrest me before it goes any further, before I'm rotten, creaking, an aged monument full of ex-officio funds. If you love me, you'll do something. You don't need a mandate. Summon your ambassadors to stop it. Only you can stop me from such ruin. Please rescue me. Don't waste time on a working group to address the issue. Act now, my love. Act now.
After Tennyson's Claribel When my love lies down The sun pauses and sleeps Ambulances slink by quietly Solemn sighing sidewalks Whisper her name Erasing the heat of the New York day With the somber melody of night When my love lies down. Evening sky muted Across a brush of trees At dusk a buzz of taxis Around Myrtle Avenue Streetlights midnight shining Down at shuttered stores But her name fills up the sky, Dotting darkness, giving hope To pigeons waiting for dawn As babbling tunneled trains Murmur to themselves, When my love lies down.
Association of Women in Kosovo Police He’s surrounded by women, Serious women. Women with badges, guns, uniforms. Especially trained To deflect and deliver force. He feels protected among them. A blue wall of womanhood Embracing his weakness. Unstructured, unlatched. Idle thought wanderer. To himself and others, a danger. Useless in any emergency. But the women With their police blouses and earnest ties identify the obstacles and danger zones. Quickly they lead him away To safety, To love.
IF If I fled, I’d be found. If I bled, I’d be bound. If I escaped, I’d be lost. If I cried, I’d be tossed. If I fought, I’d be crossed. If I submitted, I’d be bossed. If I struggled, I’d be swarmed, If I didn’t, I’d be disarmed. If I cried, I’d be drowned. If I lied, I’d be crowned. But if I loved, I’d be profound. And if I kissed, I’d be renowned.
Heat Hearing the hum of the A/C blowing, glowing, desiccant heat pass chilled doors and woe, wooden me. The inversion of summer streets. It makes such meager sense on St. George’s Day in May Unforgivable waste, immoral expense, Yet cold toes my colder reason does sway. Power from pornographic coal? Immune I am to conscious’ call. Sierra Club, I have no soul, Give me, Master Green, the blackest ball. Drill, baby, drill, my wanton, lustful cry. Driven mad with mild discomfort, Scoffing, berserk, I’ll not diversify nor my sole energy source desert. Mineral of fossilized carbon, stinking, dingy devil with fiendish effect. Lifting temperatures without blinking. Seaside cities, abandoned, shipwrecked. But my woolen feet are wicked warm and everyone else I selfishly defy. clean energy unicorns, mystical eternal power, a lie! Burn, burn, burn, bright beautiful bituminous. Until the suicidal, sunless end of all of us.
From: Me Sent: 2/11/2016 8:18 AM To: You Subject: help me reach my goal Dear love, We only need $6 million to reach our goal! Please donate now! Or I will not be able to write you morning poems again. The Hotel Bor in Varna will be forgotten forever, Along with Mr. Hikmet, Listening to Istanbul through the crashing waves of the Black Sea. I wonder if he ever climbed the stairs from the beach in Galata, Or made liutenitsa in the backyard in a giant pan over an open fire. I’m sure he felt the longing of many places. Places enmeshed with summer days and sunburns, Fresh fish, snow-white cheese. But before I go much further, You must know that I am monitoring you from the electronic device on my desk. You must respond now, Or I will never march nightily, mightily again.
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Leon Lowder is a Foreign Service Officer at the U.S. Department of State. His work has been published in Red River Review, Passager, Exposition Review and Coffin Bell.