by George Freek I stare at my unmade bed.Outside, a chilling breezerustles the dead leaves,as if they were feathers.The moon is a ball of lead.I gaze at distant stars,lost in the infinite sky,as if they hadnowhere to abide.A torn shirt, hanging froma tree, waves in the breeze,like an abandoned flag,now…
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…