Category — New
Have a Happy (and safe) 4th of July Holiday
Enjoy our fireworks display.
July 3, 2008 No Comments
Love During Wartime
by Howie Good
Time to crack open that bottle
the previous tenants bequeathed to us.
We can drink to whatever you want -
lack of sleep, importune prayers,
another day of freedom from the landlord’s
fretful knock - then tumble into bed,
our bones loosened, our minds in happy
disarray, despite, or perhaps because,
it’s now light, and there’s a kind of war
outside our window, and the invisible sniper
in the gaunt bell tower is always watching
with bloodshot eyes for a clean shot.
June 25, 2008 No Comments
Sighs
by Persis M. Karim
Are the deep breaths
you’ve held in
when you knew
better than
to unleash
your tongue
Say it like it is
and the body can
no longer—
contain them.
June 25, 2008 No Comments
Tintinnabular *
by John Ian Marshall
Within these fields of intertwined grasses,
A smile, study of outstretched hands, dancing,
Dancing in a simpler past, blues tunes play on
A tiny, tinny radio, everywhere the kind of bliss
Which only occurs in dreams, spiraling, spinning,
The best of which we are awake in. Splayed
Fingers trace the tall weeds’ uneven tops, where
Even the ringing silence sounded so good.
*Tintinnabular: of or pertaining to the ringing, jingling of bells.
June 24, 2008 No Comments
Smog
by Darla Himeles
I went out to buy smog today
after two years away from my
concrete Pacific, my crashing
head smelling waves
as I landed at the storefront
where smog is sold
as an eye shadow color.
It is not the same
as my heavy home horizons,
but it is perfect.
June 21, 2008 3 Comments
After the Disaster
by Fred Longworth
Do not try to save the day.
Allow it to slide off the edge
of the earth and into the gutters
below the horizon.
Let the maintenance crew
sweep it into baskets
and burn it with dead leaves.
Later, as the workmen hasten
westward, following the debris
of other sunsets, hail them.
Ask for the ashes.
June 21, 2008 No Comments
Kingsley’s Crossing: a story
Go to story… MediaStorm
June 20, 2008 No Comments
In the ER with my Father
by Michael Gullickson
I touched your forehead for the last time,
and willed you to recognize I was there.
They said the ocean of your brain had stilled,
no more waves, rolling to the shore.
That no man or machine,
could ever stir them again.
Choose to disconnect, they said,
let go.
I touched your forehead, for the last time
and made it so.
June 20, 2008 No Comments

