by Claude Chabot The people know. I have to be careful—they listen, they hear . . . . . . and I’m afraid for the little girl. And Charlie. They keep me here, but I flee often only to return. Their voices guide me—but they are wicked guides, hateful voices,…
by David Hutt bebop jazz never bought a transatlantic ticket so I am no beat. I listen to well-weathered guitars in dive bars where people dance with razor-cut smiles and open mouths like tombs all gurning and contorting to life. I listen to poets in ties. I listen to men…