Coming Soon
Stations of the Unfinished Corpse - Poetry by Tom Pescatore
dirt on the unfinished corpse .II
worms eat the wind shitting out the
inevitable future.
caskets piled thirty stories
higher
than telescopes can perceive light
they build anonymous organs
sell them off to dust. rain makes off with the
profits
spending them on weeds. cracks
in pavement. a mask where the eyes peer outside.
the pupils refuse to
dilate. what would require
light or darkness is
impossible. they have
neither archaic concepts.
past lives. eyes.
Guile and Beer - Poetry & Photography by David J. Thompson
Ruin Adds Beauty
Even Years Before He Died
I am a lineman for the county . . .
It comes on in the background
of the bar across the parking lot
from your motel over the conversation
and clicking of pool balls behind you.
It’s your favorite Glen Campbell song,
you can’t help but sing along while
you remember your sister had that album,
the one with his face on the cover,
how the whole family would watch
his show together every Sunday night.
I hear you singin’ in the wire . . .
You take off your cap, rub your hand
over your head. You think about
how you saw online a while back
that Campbell, with the haircut, sideburns
and smile you wanted back in the 70’s,
now has Alzheimer’s, no more performing
for him. That’s what killed your poor father,
even years before he died. You see him,
as you take a long swallow of beer,
in that sickly clean smelling lock-down unit
of the nursing home staring at the tv all day long.
. . . and I want you for all time.
Your dad began showing signs in his mid-60’s,
getting lost for a few minutes driving to places
he’d been a million times. You’re 61, now starting
to worry every time you can’t remember somebody’s name
or a movie title, or where you put that book down
a few minutes ago. You look up at the clock,
then down at your near empty beer. You hope
you have time for at least a few more as you try
to signal the bartender, but this is your first time here,
and there’s no telling when things are going to shut down.
David Lynch is After Me - A story told through first person perspective and journal entries by Ari Whipple
“I have this idea,” I tell my therapist. “I want to write a book about my manic episode.”
“You want to write about your manic episode,”
Dr. Yee says. He’s an Asian man from Hawaii, balding, in an office where the lights are always dim. We’re constantly surrounding in images of Hawaii: paintings of waves, pictures of family and native plants.
“Yes,” I reply. “It’s going to be very difficult to write about because it’ll be very disjointed in parts because I have a lot of false memories like the rant in Death Valley.”
“Like the playing card.”
I cringe.
“Yes.”
“What do you hope to accomplish by doing this?” he asked, as he scribbled notes on his blue notepad. I can never see what he writes, but, by now, after months of sessions, he’s built up a lot of paper. I’ve said a lot of things. He’s asked a lot of questions.
“I have a lot of unanswered questions that I want to try and fill in. I want to try to put together what happened to me,” I replied. “I want show people what it’s like to be manic. How it was for me.”
“What was it like?”
Horse Sense - A novel by Thasia Anne
He laughed a little and then continued, "And yet; if it weren't for taking care of those folks, I never would've heard of e-mail or the Internet. Gregg, the ignored son of one of the richest guys who came out for fly fishing, showed me how to use his laptop. He found your ad while explaining I could apply for another job."
Kaitlynn chuckled, "Here I earn my living on the computer, and you wouldn't have known a mouse from the delete button! So, it took an emotionally abandoned rich kid to help us find each other. That's amazing."
Featured Writers
Lightning In Your Room - Poetry by Christian Garduno
Hallways It’s raining in the hallways of your eyes like always all the telephones ring your neighbors scream and the butterflies in your hair scatter everywhere and the lightning in my room still reminds me of you how you always came to visit and were gone too soon Oh, how you used to walk on wine like all the time you’d bite my lip and say, “Meet you in Monterey” Looking for the world but we only found the oceans the years were passing but time was standing still and the lighting in your room has me wondering again how it could have been everything at once and I love the way you dance on wine bite this bottom lip of mine and say, “Dahling, meet me in Monterrey”.
Unleashing The Archers - Poetry by Linda Crate
i will sing
always bullied, rebuked into silence
i know i can keep my heart and lips quiet
but is that really good for my soul?
i know how to be tactful
to remain calm and demure,
pouring myself gently into a cup
for everyone's tea;
but i rather be myself straight
without chaser
because there is no comfort in being
winter's daughter
i was that girl for too long
always quietly agreeing even when i disagreed
because my mother and father taught me
that my only worth was in my looks
no one wants a woman who thinks
but that was always me
always lost in my thoughts and in the wings of
pretty dreams
my father tried to chase from me
but i never let him take everything
grew so rooted in myself so that he couldn't
squash my flowers nor my weeds
grew so tall that even he couldn't find me—
now that i remember my voice
i won't let it be lost again
not meant to be drowned out in the
wailing song of the wing,
and i won't be;
i am freed from restraint and i will sing.
- linda m. crate
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