top of page
Image by Soma Laszlo


Debon Redd Victor

Image by Srinivasan Venkataraman

Vail His Son

When distractions become an unchecked box,

we stamp checklists to hide or shove our main goals


that rains heavily and drowns my child.

Store bought distractions clutter into my palms


the other morning as I bleed onto my conscience.

“What are you doing here; the Hairtied glasses boy; he suffocated


himself,” I told myself. “For his son.” Words

twine with lines and creation; they blinded my sight


in a deep vortex of—just kept him distracted

in the corner window, he will be found creating, slow down,


snow melting from his sights. Haiku, all unknowing,

he remains free like wind as curiosity teaches him, babbles


and all. I picture the checked boxes like lemon lime water

or orange chicken when the sauce attacks your throat before the bite.


In the dreams, I gather stories to give life to when I awake.

I give each dream a purpose, to join a family of forgotten, “Does this work—”


I would ask, and upon closing my notes

app, they fade away from light. The reality


breaks through the illusion, as I recall my unchecked boxes

grow into my mind and snap at my freedom.

Little Bird

Wingless Flight

A bird jumps from the nest, a nest that may as well not existed.

A recent mother finds the crying baby, lost and scared.

A human touch will see the baby never to be loved again.

The human mother does her best to keep the bird alive.

Trying to find a sanctuary for a lost bird,

Too bad no one cares for such a weak animal, only sanctuary available is that for exotics.

Seeked help from a Doctor on campus, a local scientist or whatever he is, I never took his class.

While they talked, the bird that lay in the cup holder of the stroller

Decides this isn’t it.

 Decides maybe it can fly away.

Takes one leap and falls straight to the ground.

By then the conversation stops.

Enter the Father who strolls up and sees the mother in stress.

She comes to him to show him the bird that just decided to fly without wings.


He knows nothing can be done, he only knows this bird as dead.

The mother doesn’t cry but she isn’t exactly empty.

She wanted to help; she is known as a healer in her old stomping grounds.

She feels like she failed.

He knows that it was the bird’s choice.

She feels like she could’ve helped.

He knows no one would accept a common bird.


With their own child put to sleep, they go with the bird

To where it’ll lay to rest.

Father grabs a shovel from the shed of his work

Digs a grave, and gently places the bird into the soil of the garden.

At least in death the bird can give life.



Like the cautious people we are

We are wary of these furless creatures


Like an adoptive parent we love them

When they do something cute, we awe


Like the controller of our land we shall not falter

We shall watch and wait for them to stop their sudden movement


We are curious of them for their unpredictable nature

Wondering how their sticks of boom can kill us


We love them for their warm curious eyes

Watching as they nibble on grass


We hate them for their mocking round eyes

Readying our rifles at the sight of them in our garden


We watch them as they steal our land

Put tall rocks on our homes

Killing our elders and kidnapping our young


We see them as the lovable fuckers

The fast boys that are always out of reach

Watching from afar, admiring their cuteness


We see them as little gremlins

The demons who escape our bullets

Must watch from afar to get in a good shot


Killing is in their nature we see

Roaming and killing anything

Including themselves


The beauty of their existence

Roaming free with no limits to their numbers

Truly as beautiful as the land we stay


Disgusting little rats and their damn existence

Breeding to no end of their assault

Protect the land we stay on from these weeds

bottom of page