By Cheryl Loux My hands shook as I pressed my hair back to make sure it formed into a neat bun. I must look terrible, I thought. I inspected my dismal reflection in the glass window of the door. The weight of exhaustion was heavy upon my face. The previous…
Two Toos By Michael Williams Freddy the frog flipped a fish- Breaded and boiled was his wish. He heaved and hoed in a hurry To get wet on the set of his movie. Tiny tassels of tinsel tweaked his head, It was a wondrous weaved wig he said. The delirious…
By Gerald Yuscavage God emerged and said, “Oh, Myself,” before committing those persons deeply dependent on the intricate rhythms of the Ptolemaic system to a highly reputable institution.
By Carolyn Wright Enshrouded by the black chasm of night, my spirit awaits. The crackling of the grandfather fire and its wood smoke, intoxicate and call me to a time I no longer know. The scent of pine mixed with cedar surrounds my body as it wafts up on its…
By Patrick Venturella Pete says worms regenerate : re-grow so we find five under a rock and bisect each worm carefully with a shovel. The ten halves writhe : worm slime black clay and blood mix like ten fingers playing in a red oil slick. There will be ten worms
By Andrea Warren The white color of innocence drips From my silky transcended span As the water ripples an outline Of my graceful refined body Tenderly I reach back to guide My precious little ones Anticipating our wild surroundings And their tendency to playfully wander Many hues dance about our…
By Joseph Friedrichs The nature of life is so simple for me and my fellows so long as the money is there. Whores can be reached day and night and be ready for action within the hour. Food that will save you and food that will kill is on every…
By James Seals Someone suggested that I am the hyphen, that I am the dash that connects W.E.B. DuBois’s double-consciousness; DuBois’s beautiful concept that allows me to accurately describe my pain. I am the hyphen. Because I am neither Filipino nor American. I am the middle. I am the tick-mark;…
By James Rushmore The waxing moon balances on the pine. Lonely brook meanders through the scrub brush, The mayflies hatch without mouths; No need to Eat; But just to make love without kissing. The June night befalls the fallen fish mine, The honey bees sleep, the petals close; lush. A…
By Moira Crooks Come sit beside me on the deck The wood is fragrant and hot, the air Silent and holding its breath. Birds are hushed in the spindly trees and even the river is sullenly asleep. Violet orbs of sweetness await their fate, A few sacrificed to taste, you…