by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
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…