by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by J.P. Colby on these bright days of milk and violet light causes life to flash through thoughts like chalk spread hard, sprawled on pavement. overhead a man hangs paintings in a house of white. daisies litter his mound of clay. He builds a house of clay. He perfumes his…
by J.P. Colby Looking ahead all I can see are dark shapes; suggestions as to what may lay in wait. But I am not scared; if ever I can’t sleep because of the dark monsters lurking ahead, I can look behind me, or directly down at myself as a reminder…