2026, Day Book, poetry, prose

Daybook 2026 // Winter 1.19.26 [Martin Luther King, Jr. Day]

“The Dancing Martyrs,” doodle by Mick Parsons.

I had this book when I was a kid. It was one of those children’s books, the kind that sometimes pass for actual history because it washes over the blood and broken bone of human history. It was a book about Gandhi and Martin Luther King,Jr. I want to say it was about John F. Kennedy, too, but that might be a different book. The book talked about how these men wanted better for their fellow men, wanted freedom and self-determination. It was one of those books that ignored Jim Crow and only referred to the British Colonial power as having eventually turned cruel, not that it was cruel from the beginning. It was one of those books that referred to the death of martyrs in passive voice; not that someone murdered them,but for their good works they were killed, worded in a way to rob it of violence, because there was some notion floating around that still is floating around that it doesn’t matter what words you use as long as you “get the point across.” Facts without teeth. Erase the colonialism. Erase the racism. At the end of the book there was a drawing in black and white of King and Gandhi holding hands with Caucasian Jesus, standing atop a hill with a rainbow overhand. They were holding hands and singing

“Free at Last, Free at Last.”

I thought of this book the first time I watched Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal.

from The Seventh Seal, Dir. by Igmar Bergman (1957)
the
tooth
less
af
fair
his
story
with
out
bl
bl
bl
oo
d: wh
ite
noi
se
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2023, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry, river life, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

yes I get lost in the high language of old techincal manuals

they posess a certain indifference to salt water feed
– though it’s not just the words,
the complex sentences rolling out
like a Faulkner rough draft. the perpetuity
maybe. some underpaid scribe maybe
maybe with dreams of being a novelist maybe
went to college in an age when no one did
or maybe just maybe he was just a solid writer at school
and someone suggested he was the next Dickens
and there he was writing a manual for steam engineers
that may or may not be appreciated maybe
and maybe he was a she and wishing George Eliot
had had some balls to write under her own name
and here am I, reader of the future, sinking
forward in the past
smelling the near brittle paper before I start reading

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ad / notare, Autumn, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry

ad  / notare3

dream of trees naked in the wind
those arms shivering bare brilliant against
a dirty cotton cloud backdrop / oh dream /
like those 13-year-old boy ones rampant
pure dirty unreal soft hard like the trees
that will not see Spring

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