Kurt Newton – THREE POEMS



in these dreams I am young

and framed in white

as if innocence had never left me

still in that silent stillwater womb

of decisionlessness

with me is a girl

(there’s always a girl)

dark-haired, smart-eyed, happy

we share that unspoken hopefulness

of just being in the moment together

with no thought or care for man’s inhumanities

or the eventual death of the universe

for ours is the only universe

that matters


as if on cue

the disease takes hold

an entropic germ wends its way

into the humor of our eyes

nestles in the nautilus of our ears

wraps itself around the inner chambers of our heart

infecting those soft places

where loved ones once resided

the girl and I grow close

closer than any relative

closer than any well-meaning friend

bound by invisible tendrils of pain and loss

infected for life

and so we marry

we do as others do

we have children

to try and reclaim the purity

we once possessed

in time we grow apart

rooted by routine

feet firmly planted in the roles

each of us are designed (resigned) to play

we eye each other knowingly

ears whispering

heart beat counting down

the eventuality of our actions

and when the time comes

for our own children

to escape unaffected

unencumbered by disease

we do as others do

and pass the germ along

and wait for them to wake up

from the blindness of their dreams

in these dreams I am young

and framed in white

as if innocence had never left me

I remember them now

I remember them

learning to drown

there was a time

I wish I had died

and gone to heaven

left this bleeding broken world

for soft white clouds

and endless sleep

but down came


like acid rain

burning through the coal-black halo

wrapped around

my prison-skull

my failure

only succeeded

in helping me to grow

the tears I left behind so pure

the residue

like angel dust

but the more I grew

the more I grew

to hate this earthly challenge

this second chance at a more intense

and meaningful


so now at night

I gulp despair

I swallow desperation

as if it were the air I breathe

the heaven I fear

the devil I know

parade of fools

every year it gets louder and longer

the street corner shouters

the resistance rousers

the exiled instigators

with their bandana masks

and their rebel causes

the doleful detractors

the nightly nay sayers

the satellite squatters

with their rain dance religions

and their tax-free fodder

the last great president

who spoke the last great truth

who read the last great book

on the human condition

grab a stick

grab a stone

grab a gun

grab a place

along the parade route

and take aim at the fools

as they dance their way down street

to a monotone tune

the anorexic death artists

the anti-tech terrorists

the rain forest pledgers

with their t-shirts and calendars

and coffee mug offers

the consciousness raisers

the aerobic instructors

and their self-defense sisters

the North Texas liberators

with their guns and their charters

the last great event

that turned the last great tide

that made the last great headline

that made the evening news

grab a drum

grab a fife

grab a flag

grab a glimpse

of the end of the line

as it marches its way through

into each open manhole

and down to the sewer

every year it gets louder

every year it gets longer

every year brings us closer

to the end of the queue

to the end of the end

of the end of the tune

as it quietly fades

until the last of us gets up

to join the parade



Kurt Newton’s poetry has appeared in The Dream People, Mad Rush, and 1/25. He views the world with equal parts  disgust and wonder. He calls Connecticut home.


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