Wishful Wishing
  
 Tell me something I don’t know,
 that the mirror has three faces, if not more.
 Or that easy does not necessarily does it. 
 It does not!
  
 That the good outweighs the bad,
 perhaps, for all we know.
  
 Tell me again, if you’ve learned
 that your thoughts are worth more than a cent,
 that to fuck up is divine and it’s human to repent,
 that well said can be even better than well done.
  
 That the good outweighs the bad, not doubt
 for all we care.
  
 Tell me more now. Just say yes:
 Can I call a spade a dove, or just a spade?
 Can I hope for something new under the sun?
 Aren’t things almost always what they seem?
 Does the good outweigh the bad?
  
 We know it does! For all we stand.
  
  
Originally published on March 2018 in the anthology “Persian Sugar in English Tea” by Soodabeh Saeidnia





  
 Idleness
  
             I indent myself to be present to the things 
 that I see with my eyes closed when my hope becomes
 hopelessly idle, (shut tight) in closed parenthesis. 
  
 It’s my own impostor syndrome at its best: 
 urging me off the ledge, talking to me
 the way false prophets prophesy
 fasle prophets. 
  
 It’s the promise of me that I failed, 
 going nowhere in a hurry, running
 from past thing that aren’t worth words; 
 words from the book of —who cares now?
  
 It’s not a matter of changing
 but editing out your endlessness.
 It’s my image in your countenance. 
 It’s a fuck of sorts.
  
 It’s my weak, but necessary restraint
 from jumping into pieces.
 It’s the blinders on the horse.
 It’s whatever it is that it’s a “yes.”
  
 But not today, and not right now.
 Hell no. Not inside this prayer.
 

 Originally published on August 2008 in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine.




 Epiphanies may affect these hours
  
 I've been (for much too long)  
 Siting on a box in Pittsburgh,
 living on a Gesell Dome.
 minding the wind, and the time (lost).
  
 Discounting the warm and decay,
 but fiercely trusting the sons
 (of ghosts); sluggishly forgiving
 my unforgiven rootlessness.
  
 There will be hookers in our history books, and urine,
 and fast food, pornography (and its stars).There will be
 genre trappings, and bad endings and trees and reason 
 (disguised as such). Open 24 /7. Open for debate and
 global wholesales, but not for harmony, nice haircuts,
 or wildflowers.
  
 But Epiphanies will affect these hours!
  
 And if they can’t, I’ll give it all up.
 Because I’ve been (for much to long)
 trying to belong.
  

Originally published on July 2019 in Miletus Literary Magazine 

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Juan Chemes is an American writer born in Argentina. He earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University in New York in 2018. His stories and poems have appeared in Miletus Literary Magazine, Bloggerty, What Rough Beast (Indolent Books), Cagibi, the anthology Persian Sugar in English Tea, and The Blue Nib. Mr. Chemes is currently residing in Colombia, working on his first fiction novel: The Shame of the Shameless.