Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine #6

To My Fellow Citizens We are the fish that hum to birds in the winter.

We are the first works of art that burn with quiet hysteria.

Sometimes we can’t help but keep the sanctity of this world in our soggy gardens.

Are we on the eve of rebirth in a bubble?

We should be so lucky.

We, the people, are the blow darts of silence circling nearby stars.

Sadly, we miss the way the world builds to its crescendo, and we tremble at a moment’s notice when buses return from the conservatory (but we don’t know why).

Our philosophy is simple: The court jesters are wise.

We all inhabit the island of love and suicide.

We are all witnesses to the glory of fall leaves teetering on the edge of a shower or thunderstorm.

The colors can’t fool us when they fall into girls’ hearts, but they are grateful for the fruits of the storm.

Are we moving beneath the sorrow in our bellies?

We can’t afford not to.

Everywhere we look there are puppets with paper bags over their heads.

We’re proof that golden night contains magnetic crystals, proof that the last destination