Liam Lynch (they/them) is a writer of surrealist poetry based in Chicago. Their poetry utilizes teachings of eastern philosophy and spirituality to explore emotion, confusion, and care. Liam is currently pursuing a graduate degree in Buddhism-Informed Counseling at Naropa University.



The Ceremony

By Liam Lynch

On a road that’s hardly a road and more like a path or a park,
my mind, my skin, and my bones follow in succession as I run forward.
Each of us slowly browning like fruit flesh separated from the rind.
I play tricks like stopping abruptly or running backward, hoping we’ll all fall into each
other again but clearly, I underestimate the strength of our disconnection. They know
what I’m going to do when I do it or maybe before.
So the fragmentation continues.
I give up, walk in a tight circle, and plop myself down so that each of us faces the
others. Shifting around, you can tell we’re uncomfortable with such intimacy. But
I start the ceremony anyway. I don’t stand up to speak because I know they’ll just
follow me.

I clear my throat:

“Even after all these years, I struggle to have compassion for any of us. As you know, we’re suspended
here. Separated at this or that birth or death. Doing or not doing and all I want is to love us all a bit—lots
of bits more....this of course. I see you, body and bone and mind with your cracks and I’m so mad at you
for what you’ve done to me. And I’m so mad at myself for all that I put myself through. So here you go,
and to you, and to you, a jade roller and a lint trap which I can’t remember if I stole or I bought but I
know that I earned them. That should settle my debts to us all. And it must. Because it’s all I have left to
give. Please. Please accept my forgiveness. And please accept that I don’t know how to love you yet. Or
how to forgive you either.”
No one claps or cries or laughs or smiles. Because they know that I’m missing the point.


Counting Corn Fields

By Liam Lynch

I have no hope for American farmland.
Flower sermon rustling in miles of corn and soybean, but no
know now I have no words of wisdom.
Where a flower is as good as plucked,
I couldn’t tell you the last time I had a good sit.
A second beer before a second thought,
You want a drink?
Drank enough tonight not to eat for two days
Save a few bucks
I’m tired.
It’s hard to bike a mile in America without thinking of every sinful mistake.
Every Jew’s a little Christian in America,
I’m sorry.
I’d be a Buddhist by now if I only knew how to stop trying.
I don’t feel safe in this world,
I told a chiropractor.
He held my feet.
Thought of corn fields and soybeans in America and I cracked.