By: HR Creel under this tree I learned that I am no hunter watching the men in my family kill, spill blood, put food on the proverbial table I learned that I am a gatherer or singer or near-sighted bard.
By: HR Creel we put the dying to rest, laying eyes or coins on their eyes sending them on a grand voyage never thinking we should follow them.
A review of The Rocket Scientist’s Guide to Money and the Economy by Michael Sharp Reviewed by William T. Hathaway Most books about economics are turgid and abstruse, so most people are intimidated and mystified by this crucial topic. Now sociologist…
By: Mary P. Douglas artist painting her heart with music awakening her mind with expression blue eyes deep souls escape artists wandering into his realm blind, inhibited, hungry winds swirled stones thrown hail pounded damaged goods convinced of worthlessness petrified…
By: Mary P. Douglas Hands cupped peering through the glass Desperately attempting to visualize; Insiders Reality’s repugnant Torment of the truth Thorns surging through my veins Fiercely wrenching, Profound wounds. Striking skull against the immortal wall Blood gushing out, Exposing…
By: Miguel Gardel I went back to the ads. After three torturous days, I found something. But I got there too late. Many people had answered the same ad. I rode a bus all the way to West Los Angeles…
By: j.lewis yes i know that cummings also shunned upper case and elliott wrote things simply complex with endings that often stood alone and apart, severed tails staring bewildered at the body of the poems that dropped them unexpectedly on dirty…
By: j.lewis glory days gone she says she was blonde and wild and oh the things she tells of young indiscretions pleasures and places remembered so long after but the names escape her along with the little attachments that bind…
By: Chuck Orloski (The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Primary) I want to donate my liver to the Marketplace, take Performance Enhancing Drugs, pop a Cuban kid out of Howard J. Lamade! I want a chance to binge in Mosul, I want…
By: Nate Maye Her This poem is for her, a gift, a sacred flower that I am not able to give in any other way but a few hieroglyphics on a flashing screen, a series of characters that will hopefully mean…