by George Freek I stare at my unmade bed.Outside, a chilling breezerustles the dead leaves,as if they were feathers.The moon is a ball of lead.I gaze at distant stars,lost in the infinite sky,as if they hadnowhere to abide.A torn shirt, hanging froma tree, waves in the breeze,like an abandoned flag,now…
By Caleb Coy “Why yes, I did read a poem to Nikki Giovanni,”I will say casually. “Two poems, actually.”Yes, me and thirty other peopleAt a Barnes and Noble poetry reading. Nikki begins, describing herselfAs the sacrificial lamb, the firstTo have one’s throat cut beforeAn audience hungry for placation. I go…