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 Linda Bragg LATE DECEMBER 1972 The sour smell of lung cancer clings to the humid air – heavy, unyielding. My family lives in Florida, and like most homes, ours has no air-conditioning. My father’s been sick for two years — now he’s coughing up blood and breathing has…
by Ag Synclair let those broken things the old and discarded enjoy quiet sleep let them lie, still under an orange night split by trees where the hounds of winter bark mournful, low in this place where they left us among the slightest of bones
By Josh Medsker I am on stage with Patti Smith. Kasama ko paglalaro ng gitara. I can’t hear what she’s saying, ngunit siya flapping sa paligid ang kanyang mga arm, at ang aking gitara is just throwing out waves of feedback. Ito tran…