Three Poems by Alexander Morgan

Real Hoax

275,130 cases confirmed

11,376 deaths.

0 according to the spin machines

And those above.

“A lie,” they cry, citing conspiracy

Theories that also sell them

Liquid silver, supplements,

And toothpaste. Why not

Rob the confused and frightened?

Leave shelves barren and prices

Sky high while bleeding the masses.

Take sick leave and pay away from workers.

Insist prayer instead of planning

As if the God who doesn’t answer

When the homeless remain forgotten and abused,

When minorities are sculpted into demons and strange fruit,

When love is policed and identity is portrayed as a debate or sin,

When prisons are plantations and not penitentiaries,

When war gets more money than health or education,

When camps exist and no one is concerned, or are told not to be,

Will cleanse us of a disease denied by those with the authority

To do something. When stocks and stars matter more

To those in authority than the 330,874,000 of us

Outside that small, chosen few, how do we, our just one,

Remain confident in the system?

When truth and reality are treated like just opinions

To debate and refrain from approaching,

How do we not catch the disease of

Disheartenment in the system?

Distrust of those in charge?

Defeat in spirit?

We don’t.

Reality, and 11,376 deaths, are no hoax.

The Providence of Innuendo

Have you ever seen the man who swallows swords,

And wallow in the words as you stared at gourds

Brought by hordes of procreators who laid seed in

Fertile ground that sprung up in heat drank up

Like a sailor on shore leave? Leave the thought of gourds

And swords and fasten your thoughts on the vines that

Intertwine and curl and unfurl and require trimming

And get wet with the spilling of life affirming liquid:

Right from the nozzle. The tip of which sprinkles

Out and tinkles out dirty water. But what is dirty?

The water itself or the vessel that shakes about in

Overflow when you go and try to use it? Like the river,

In which, it smells like fish, and you splish and splash

Getting soaking wet while your partner, wading for you to

Come (over), looks on in astonishment as you

Flail and wail your rod around. And they scream in

Excitement as you flop around and let the push and

Pull of the situation get you tumbling and grunting?

Playing with rods and fish and thinking about swords swallowed

While the vines are entwined and the gourds have you

Bored and you bend over and take it all in.

And you want to sit and spin but the tea-cups

Are out of order, but at least the wait-lines at

Others are shorter and shorter than your Dick,

Not your brother with the same name, but the little person

You decided would be your date: because love is

Blind and it’s not about size to you, but how

They use it: as tall people are intimidating

And people your size are not in your taste

But Dick is and that’s what matters. And

You wonder why people snicker at your situations

And wording when they are the ones worse and perverse enough to

Make these connections.

Tempus Fugit

I.

Get born, live, die.

What is done in between is a

Matter of circumstance and

Perspective. Things done,

Things lost, experiences

And memories and friends

Who melt into photographs,

Backgrounds, songs

We sing to summon the

Soul of our past happiness.

Joy wedged in seat cushions

And tossed away. Love buried

In letters never sent to our

Inevitable strangers. Promises

Made and broken by the

Droning and drowning sands

Of an immortal hourglass.

Our time is spent in cold confusion,

Cowardly comedies crafted in our clay,

Comely crashes climbing into a cacophonous

Climax of moans, sighs, and bedroom eyes

That connect us closer or complete the cycle.

A new generation of getting born,

Living, and dying.

II.

Sometimes, this is a child,

But, often, it resembles something else.

A dog we love as a pup, play with in a park

In their golden years, then bury after they

Succumb to all the fond memories, the years

Of love, and creeping fears of loss. A career

We love at the start, we commit to in hours out

And orders delivered to the work site, and mourn once the

Time has come and the desire is done.

A work we start with rabid inspiration, foster with

Rewrites, revisions, and submissions, and end in

Satisfaction or resignation. Our creations and

Leave-behinds either stand like poems shared

By the forever wind or monuments built in the

Facsimile of Ozymandias: the fallen and decrepit

King of kings.

III.

Our time flies, but we have memory.

A golden gift? Perhaps. We can

Still relive our moments

Behind us. Friends,

Family, love all lost can

Return to us in a second. Cards,

Photos, signatures, writs.

Poems and post-cards. The presents

We present with public pleasantry.

Scars, cars, favorite bars and stories

Shared. Many times exaggerated.

Or partially forgotten. Or fully

Forgotten. Or utterly erased by the

Sands of time. Memories are born,

Live, and die.

IV.

And I have forgotten when I was born

And I have forgotten how I lived and who I became

And I have forgotten my close proximity to death.

And I can’t remember your face.

And I can’t tell if this has been a good day or where we are.

And I am hoping those strangers will take me home.

And I can’t tell you the year or why

God has abandoned me.

And I can’t tell you how long I’ve been in here.

And I can’t tell you how I lived and who I became.

And I can’t promise to tell you I love you

Because I don’t know you.

Though your face reminds me of a faded photograph.

And I can’t tell you where I’ve seen it.

And I can’t tell if this is a good day or where we are.

And I can’t tell you my name: even if you say it

And I nod. And I can tell you my end is near.

And I can’t tell how close my proximity to death is.

V.

We get born, live, and die.

But we don’t end. We leave behind

Collateral. We leave estates, paper trails,

Names, and creations. Even when we forget

Ourselves, we give others stories, associations,

And love. On our graves, we leave flowers

To bloom. On our words, we leave

Meaning and maybe wisdom to bud.

On our pain, we leave lessons to learn

And inspiration in some to keep going.

We may forget with time the exacts

But rare is the one who leaves their world

Untouched or unaltered.

We die, wither, and become reborn

In the hearts of those who love us.

The Author

Alexander "Alex" Morgan comes from the small town of Valley-View, PA and is currently a Creative Writing major at Susquehanna University. Growing up, he used to be bullied a lot and was seen as the smart disabled kid on the playground. This sense of an outsider status enabled him not only to be able to sympathize with a lot of others, but also allowed for him to use this ability and his burgeoning creative mind to write both prose and poetry in and out of class, aiming to implement his skills eventually in comics. For now, he mainly writes poetry (with the occasional prose piece) but is still holding out hope for his ideal medium. He is also currently being published for other works through one of his school's publications, The Sanctuary, and has been, in his time outside of writing, a karate brown belt, a school announcements anchor, an NHS member, and an improv comedian.  If he were able to do anything other than being socially isolated at the moment: he would probably either be among his friends from the main club he goes to or trying to expand his social circle in places with dancing and drinks.