by Chris Litsey One said that poems were like music Our ancestors sang into our souls. The other was captivated by the tendrilsOf fate she found herself bound within. He was obsessed too, Obsessive to a fault, Finding faults in the failings of frail cards, Guided by the incessant turnings of midnight readings. She…
by Anna Dodson August was quiet this year.My evening chamomile seepedoutside, the figs lappedthe sky like pea blossom and lemon juice.The glass, a white diamondrefracting all that quiet on the gloom. I miss you most of all, my darling.Heat fogged the window like two lovers in the backseat,jazz flute on…
by Bill Foley The last time Walt peed in the bed, Brenda’s pajamas were the collateral damage. “Walt, wake up!” she whispered. “Are you wearing your Depends?” “Huh?” he grumbled. “Oh my God, not again.” Now shouting disgust and frustration, Brenda ran into the bathroom, pulled off her pajamas, and…
by Chris Litsey One said that poems were like music Our ancestors sang into our souls. The other was captivated by the tendrilsOf fate she found herself bound within. He was obsessed too, Obsessive to a fault, Finding faults in the failings of frail cards, Guided by the incessant turnings of midnight readings. She…
by Anna Dodson August was quiet this year.My evening chamomile seepedoutside, the figs lappedthe sky like pea blossom and lemon juice.The glass, a white diamondrefracting all that quiet on the gloom. I miss you most of all, my darling.Heat fogged the window like two lovers in the backseat,jazz flute on…
by Bill Foley The last time Walt peed in the bed, Brenda’s pajamas were the collateral damage. “Walt, wake up!” she whispered. “Are you wearing your Depends?” “Huh?” he grumbled. “Oh my God, not again.” Now shouting disgust and frustration, Brenda ran into the bathroom, pulled off her pajamas, and…