Chalk dreams

Written on rough
concrete, begging for
repair,
groaning with the stress
of elder trees whose roots
have been growing since
the sidewalk was merely a
distant blueprint

each letter takes form,
the energy drains into
slate-colored tiles

the off-white substance,
once as long as an old man’s
weathered hands
grows smaller and humbler
until there is nothing left

but dreams and aspirations
waiting for the infrequent rainstorm
to wash it all away

Here I stand

Here I stand

Erdem Gunduz engaged in a form of protest that emphasizes power not by motion, but by the lack of motion. For eight hours he stood silently in Taksim Square- which had been violently cleared out by riot police earlier. Passers-by went from indifferent, to annoyed, to amused, and finally began to emulate him. By the time police moved in at 2am, there were three hundred people standing still, looking at the Ataturk Cultural Center- where a large picture of the famous secular president is displayed.

He is now called “duran adam,” Turkish for “standing man.” Many followup actions throughout Turkey take his lead.

gazing at falsehood

societies have erected temples;
to win wars, to gain peace;
to make fields and girls fertile;
ensure the future and placate the past;
 
yet the notion to reward falseness;
with coin and rapt attention;
the woman with airbrushed thighs;
coyly glance from glossy magazines;
 
the comic books of my youth tell;
of super-strength and commanding fire;
awesome, yes, I know that these powers;
are not for the likes of mortal man;
 
once flipping through Teen People;
I counted fifty-three skinny blondes;
they are as distant as a superhero;
yet all kinds attempt to imitate them;
 
Adonis imbued in us a desire;
never able to be quenched;
to be someone we are not;
nor ever could possibly be;
 
gaze into a mirror soon, not now;
for this poem is not quite over and;
its author knows too well of Adonis;
but nothing but reality will meet you;
 
creeping across every inch of your body;
and deeper to each facet of your character;
the smiling blondes do not live;
they lived until a camera stole their soul;
 
they became timeless, floating in timeless void;
smoothed into into sculpture;
turned from person to portrait;
 
the post-industrial world is busy;
full of deeply serious people that work far too hard;
when they return home why escape into;

a reality that hurts the heart?;