|The remembrance of death, eloquent in an artistic form.
|How can something be remembered in an imperfect memory of stones covered in pigeon shit?
|Statuettes of the bloody wars now unforgettable, until stones crumble or metals are melted.
|Tombstones are inorganic.
|Girls that commit suicide can become marble angels.
|A memorial of a genocide could be art out of destruction, but no one should forget, some way.
|Desire comes early; why should one ignore what comes natural in the beings that humans are?
|Unwanted children breed crime, except in the world of available adoption.
|A new life is born.
|No more innocence, for sure.
|A child must admit to being a bastard, in a world where that term shouldn’t be used.
|People feel like they belong, and they may even get matching vintage Nikes.
|Suicide pacts reduce members. Reaching for heaven’s gate.
|Ideology can shape and reshape, and under the influence of a responsible leader, people progress.
|Leaders sometimes poison followers in sacramental cups, waiting for the apocalypse.
|Greedy for new members, always.
Jeff Pearson has been published by Black Rock & Sage, Otis Nebula, A capella Zoo, and Heavy Feather Review and has some poems forthcoming in Shampoo. He recently had his first chapbook, Sick Bed, published by Small Text Dreams Press. As a student of the MFA program at University of Idaho, he works with poets Alexandra Teague and Robert Wrigley. He has collaborated with James Lloyd on many zines, including legoverleg and The Haunted Fortress.