ISSUE 6: WINTER 2017 / POETRY

“PINK GLASSES (ALL THE COLORS)” by Thomas Osatchoff

Usually we think of things how they seem. We’re elastic bands though we may seem like human beings.

I like licking the white plastic torn pure from the top of white yogurt containers—
vanilla. Millions of live bacteria trying to see her
in Manila without color and without eyes
help to maintain my bodily balance.                                 In Japan, L and R sound the same.

A samurai was so rich that he commandeered every linguist in the land to give him private tutoring on how to make the L sound so he could tell his American infatuation in English how he felt.

That samurai was so rich that he had every rose in the land squished of its vital fluids then introduced (carefully like a dish of puffer fish) to his system through dialysis.
He called it the ultimate purification; his kidneys were found in a state of paralysis.

Some say the samurai had a death wish. When asked why he would go around naked without his sword, he replied: skeletons don’t wear clothes; skeletons don’t have a grammar for died.

When he did put clothes on, the samurai liked to dress up like the Duke of Wellington. He took pride in being, of all samurai in all the land, the one who showed the least restraint.

He had a penchant for standing in the sun, a swelling thing, while singing and ringing the bell until he was this close to falling over in a faint. He did this because he wanted to know what it felt like to be Napoleon. He often thought of what the world would be like if Waterloo went the other way.

The diener, eyeing to blow beyond his position and inspired by the guy who smuggled
Einstein’s brain, put the sword into the samurai’s abdomen and eureka! He made art:
kidneys that resembled a rose.

Rosebud kidneys.

The diener, now an artist, spoke at his gallery opening of the samurai’s last word being a sound something like LOVEBUDS.

Before LOVEBUDS, what he said was: war; peace, whatever. Then he flipped a coin into the air, closed his eyes before it landed on his forehead square—and said a sound something like LOVEBUDS. Froze,

it was like in his never moving again that he captured it.

Within the magnetic mirrors of some sort of VR headset. Rose glasses

linking how things seem differently to everyone seen through
the same windows cleaned with pink isopropanol then smashed

vis-à-vis a visa-less dashes across the border. Usually we view flora as green. My unordered digestion crosses the colors of the rainbow; the same goes for my general well-being is everything white elastic when nothing is face-to-face I bend to lick organic white yogurt via inorganic white plastic borders.


Thomas Osatchoff has resided in many places throughout the world where he has had the opportunity to develop his perspective. Writing these words, he is in Berlin; while you read these words, he is in Malaysia.


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