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    chemical life cycle



    something switches on, a lightning bug in heat


    in the dark depths of my bowels, the twisty-

    turvy endless tube array;

    if i dropped a quarter down this well

      would it come out the other side

    (what even is this other side?

                does it really have a

           bright        white      glistening

    light at the end like all the stories

                     the doctors and surgeons with their green-

       cloth-ed mouths blocking out the silences, the patients

    so run-down with the chemical chemo, a brink from blinking into

    oblivion, the darkness within,

    vacuous spaces—

          empty or so full, so full with black,

                a lifetime of ink, bad words, rotten phrases,

           sad hopes, expired fruits and dreams—)

    this is what they want us to believe,

                            but is this,

                                        can should must

                it be like this




    Love Poem No.92:

    Navigating Being


    Am I

       crazy for you or just


      writing these quixotic fantasies about a life together—

    or is it just my life in general that I’ve finally grown

    into the deep or out of it, sinking up or flying down,

       do the semantics matter

    when we’re just pieces of matter flying trillions of miles

    through empty space grasping

           breathing spinning

    loving b

     cause none of the rest of it matters

    we’re so scared of powerful things: death, taxes,


      finding new space rings on Mars, Venus, where have you

    really gone, what have you really done

           with all this information

    are we learning or just growing up?

    growing out of your skin sinking into new


    Can there be a difference made in these lives,

       the shivering wretch at the end of a graffitied subway tunnel,

                the Middle Eastern man drumming his heart out, drumming to breathe,

          drumming and praying and crying out for—

    the hushed sound a mother makes to her baby boy

    the whispers of sheets around closed lovers

    and you hear it in the wind come autumn or the

        ripening spring,

    earth sighing

    closing and opening, a delicate mimosa with one foul touch

    moving back in on itself




    stuck in post-graduation remnant space



    to feel something when I feel nothing

    blasting music, increasing syllables of sound,

                trombone and vocal stress,

    to get into it,

                hear something


    when i am deaf: to

                the starving child’s hungry stomach,

                old man’s empty pocket,

                cans in landfills chink-chinking


    the world screams


    i am suffocated


    beyond feelings, beyond emotions, is the space,



                to grow to feel to expand my consciousness to that which is universal,

                            so Hegel thought

    so I dream


    i crave


    to be part of you part of her in with him

    to be everything


    a thunder in a raindrop cloud, echoing between stiff

    mountain horizons i—



    haven’t yet met first base,

                            discovered for myself what I am worth,

    who should?

                so we play in the dark diamonds of the summer twilight passing rubber orange balls

    back and forth,

                                        when do ties form?

    and in winning,

                            do we break them?

    or what


    because I’m losing sight of all this:

    this whole matter of being, creating,

    when all i am is spiraling down toward you when you






    the drain


    blonde girls can’t swim; everyone knows

    you should have stuck with me


    is settling seeing beyond or

         meeting invisible standards, tied invisible strands to ropes to ceilings rafters

    –running Wild is what i do best


    but to be I to be me for you to be you and me to be without—

                is to Know

    see yourself in my reflection and know your lines

                            my boundaries

    don’t match up


    but whose does?




    for the desperate


    a google search for truth,


    is this our life coming forth


    post graduation



    My God: if I had one,

                who does these days, it’s not fashionable

    If I had a penny for each time I feel

                            beyond my capabilities as artist,

    smothered to stone a woman warrior without one cause

                I need bravery, that of Malala, reincarnated Rosa Parks,

    fighting for something greater than Me


    what is this self-identification tossed aside

    by burgeoning society weighing me down

                education is important

                college degree will get you a job


    so we spread propaganda to make money

    leave me out of a self-formative system only benefitting a see-lect few

                            when I, in my di-a-lect [ical]

                say no

    I the slave to a master never found do breathe

    afford a space to float within me


    last month I crawled to church to say, hail holy mother,


                don’t ever let me become one


    this is why children cannot learn


    iPads replace I’ve-learnds

    dream no more

    count sheep as a silly game–$.99 with an account

    price is set on everything


    what is a soul worth?


    does that exist




    i call mayday to a german ship who thinks

                in my sinking i am thinking


    About The Author


    Diana Andreea Gabor

    Diana Andreea Gabor is a Romanian-American currently living and working in Genova, Italy, teaching English as a second language. She has lived in three different countries and three different states and is fluent in three languages–yet she does not like the number three or numbers in general. Since studying Modernist literature and criticism for her M.A. from Florida State University, she has been battling the quarter-life crisis and forging her own path in this mad, mad world. Her first published poem, “Grocery List,” appeared in Instigatorzine.