OPEN MIC/READ ALOUD/PEER CRITIQUE

## Details

YOU'VE POURED BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS INTO YOUR CREATION, NOW SHARE IT WITH YOUR PEERS! Read whatever you like--memoir chapters, essays, poetry, journal entries. We update each other on our progress, share tips and advice--including good and affordable editors and literary agents.
ZOOM LINK HERE, ZOOM LINK ETC. BLASTED OUT THE PRECEDING FRIDAY NIGHT 9:30PM AND SATURDAY 10AM--CHECK YOUR EMAIL INBOX, AND MAKE SURE YOU ARE SUBSCRIBED TO GROUP ANNOUNCEMENTS.

by Ian Mathes
June Makes us forget
Winter sends our
nerves to temptation.
It’s June, nineteen
thirteen and it will
always be for you.
The people gather below
God’s mountain. They,
the ones in white, forget.
Those cherry cheek
souls prance with wide
gates in the heat,
in the meadow's
trim grass, in
the tittering-to-the-touch dew
The congregation in
front has only just
arrived, expanding and
retracting their silk
umbrellas for some time.
The couple running,
they’ll run to horizon’s
breast to nuzzle it,
never actually reaching –
blind to the drop-off
of repetition
for they find their
rushing feet too interesting.
Those black spires
of sack suites and petite
coats, they hang
in share with idle
waddling
bound to their clothes.
Yet, you stare while
everyone else is occupied
with saddle shoe laces,
virgin gowns, those
consistently tasty
cucumber sandwiches,
and earnest talk.
You see fidgeting off frame.
You see Bellows
masturbating
in his studio.
You see me
in bankrupt Detroit.
You see the pocket
with the highest bid.
You are the green oracle
cursed to remember
the seasons that circle
like the buzzards in
the dead heat.
You are bound in evergreen
robes during the early
Midwest Summer.
You do not forget
the dog-day eats its
tail as you look
past these people
with sunken eyes,
kneeling and watching
the glass horizon
cycle through eternity.###