by Corey Mesler The skylight is gray. God keeps his distance. I rouse to the sound of distant dogs. They sing for the dance of the birds, just now waking, almost too late to teach dogs (and me) how to fly.
Category Archive: Poetry
Sep 15
Polish Boy
by Mark Wisniewski sometimes in the middle of a night I’ll wake & start wondering where they came from: the words & conflicts in all that dirt printed under the odd Polish boy’s name this troubles me into fearing my source will dry up leaving me as a kind of Joe Namath of literature hobbled …
Sep 15
The Jungle
by Michael Grover It’s the law of the jungle When you’re down you’re out I have tried to say there is no jungle Only to have it bite me in the ass I live my life regardless At my own pace & I’m just starting to pay the dues Maybe working for something Other than …
Sep 15
A Rough Life on Four Legs
by J. Claudius Cloyd On the block over from the pioneer square just opposite the meyer and franks sit the gutter punks and their dogs. It’s the dogs that get me. I know I should feel bad for the kids but that’s not why I give them a few bucks. They sit in the shade …
Sep 15
Gun Control
by Alan Britt Guns control more than the stock market. Look around you. Who sent guns to Sadam in the first place? So, don’t kid yourself about gun control.
Sep 15
Educational Recruiter Blues I
by Dan Provost Because it’s the sale of education. That forces me to carry a knife in my pocket and debate every day whether to cut my wrist or try to change my small part of the world by refusing to be bought. I will not tell lies anymore. Trying to convince someone that the …
Sep 15
Brooks and the Shawshank Piano
by Dan Provost The piano notes in Shawshank Redemption So daunting… So final… Brooks knew it—the fear of living. Every step out in the world is a claw to the stomach; a bayonet that churns when you attempt to try to converse with the normal. This is no way to survive…this failure to understand mankind. …
Sep 15
A Moment’s Terror
by Gene Fehler “A moment’s terror.” The words remind her of Miss Albers. “A moment’s terror” has to be the best oxymoron, she thinks, as the moment spreads across weeks, months. Sometimes, like during soccer games racing downfield when feet feel for the ball and the ball explodes into a goal, cheers hide the terror …
Sep 15
Afterward
by William Doreski Having lain awake all night in the shrubbery in front of the bank, I’m rigid as a stop sign, my bones at odds with each other and my breakfast-passion ripe and quaint as the sexual prowess our culture used to glorify with sloppy kisses and sultry looks. Now that we’re homeless by …
Sep 15
A Fish-Pond
by William Doreksi A fish-pond by a stumbledown barn. A chubby old man and I sit on the rim and skip stones. Mine skip a dozen skips, his one or two. “I admire your style,” he remarks, “the flip of the wrist, the single knot of muscle pulsing down the forearm.” The summer evening throbs …