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 Gil Hoy Sometimes in today’s America The rights of rioting white supremacists trump the rights of black football players kneeling Peacefully, holding hands. And for some particularly wealthy Tweet bosses, The earth is not Warming, forget the ship-wrecked Mexican American and there is no community of man. The earth’s squirrels …