by Jess Earl Mama told me that thunder is just the sound of angels bowling. The angel outside my window doesn’t have hands but maybe it just can’t bowl, like how Katie can’t eat peanut butter. The angel doesn’t look like the ones in Mama’s paintings; it looks like a…
by Marc Livanos I touch cool grittybay waters,full of blue-green wavestossing and rollingplayfully animated,as they crash against the shore. I taste saltiness,carried and flung ontwisting twirlingmisty sea breezes –briny, fishyforever saline. In this roux, the laughingcries of seagulls carrythe wisdom of the ages,as their mocking attitudetaunts me –dude, go home,…