When it comes to comprehending numbers, don't listen to the poets - if they understood basic math, they wouldn't be poets. Listen to the accountants, instead. A poet will sing how 13 is an unlucky number (no feat of the imagination there). She may even pull out her license and irrationally rhyme how some numbers are unethical. As if ethics applies to math and money. An accountant will cogently observe that no matter what 13 may be it is not a big number. 17 is bigger - though still not big. 27, 32, 50, and 59 are big but no bigger than a modest PR problem. 13 does not make a synagogue a concentration camp. Especially when 13 is actually 12 because the killer was 1. The accountant will clarify that 12 is much smaller than billions. The poet will protest: billions is the sound of outdoor concerts becoming killing fields and classrooms becoming slaughterhouses. Poets call those children and concertgoers blood diamonds. An accountant now concerned about the bottom line will counter that "blood diamonds" is a misleading and malicious metaphor manufactured by malcontent poets to cynically incite the sympathies of simpletons. There hasn't been a market for blood diamonds in years. So children and concertgoers are not blood diamonds. They aren't even innocent bystanders - because they were terrified, when the shooting started, and tried to run away. If you must name them, the accountant will conclude that the children and concertgoers were coal ash or feathers or other unavoidable byproducts of businesses worth billions. What, the accountant would like to know, is a poem worth? Luvgood Carp, Chief Editor First published in The Broadkill Review
When I was 156 months old, I was ignorant and delighted to be so. When I turned 157 months old, my family moved to a tiny and disturbing land where the money-minded natives used lacrosse sticks for everything. Working, eating, knitting, fornicating (ouch). Everything.
This strange place was called Connecticut, which means “hedge fund of loneliness” in Algonquian. Much like the winters there, I became sullen and dark. My sole refuge was the local library where I hid from everyone. It was easy to do. The place didn’t sell anything, so no one went there.
That’s where I found The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and my life was saved. The story is full of great and awful beings, but I became fast friends with Frodo. He too was a diminutive creature who saw ignorance as a blessing. Then he was sent to a cursed land on a doomed mission. Frodo got me through that first summer. He made all the difference in the world. While I was still frequently angry and sometimes lonely, I now had allies. Thousands of them. All waiting for me to read their stories.
Tengo Leche, Social Anxiety Scholar
I stole a frozen chicken and tried some Voodoo. I prayed to Shiva but I'm not Hindu. Magic 8 ball said gotta go. The lucky charm I rubbed was actually just a dildo. I brought to Jesus all my desperate pleas, but though he loves the poor he loves us on our knees. So when's your home not your home? When it's owned by the bank you dumb fuck, and the bank wants you out. I diligently worked my way down every dead end street taking every detour I could take - like rubbing a dildo for hours until my hands ached. Now the neighbors line the street. Police pound at my door. Mr. Diligent Dumbfuck went and got a gun because dildos won't do anymore. Luvgood Carp, Chief Editor
By Monday morning, a furious Mrs. Muzzle pounced on Uncle's lap, took her petite paw and gave his smirking lips several wicked smacks. But he continued to talk as if he was used to that repeating a tedious tale about a dubious time when Smear the Queer was a Hunger Game the neighborhood kids would play. And everyone was proud and happy though no one was proud and gay. Problem people stayed silent otherwise they were gagged, and proper people spoke English with a Midwest accent - the same one Jesus had. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief