By Alan Berger My pop told me instead of hanging on to crap, flush it. Got it? Yeah pop. My father was a cop. My father didn’t have a best friend. Didn’t need one, everyone was his friend, until they…

By: Sarah Lao In/Retrograde Say it is night, and outside, there is a man lying dead under the streetlamp. Skin tight jaundice stretched over tissue/socket/bonelike the dried pulp of paper-mache, there’s hyacinth blooming from skull—an expired milk carton evaporating to…

By: Linda Imbler Walking Alongside My Pen Blue inked penMy favorite tool.I, writing thoughts with coolmeanings unlocked,senseless garbling overruled.Mood on the upswing,old versions slipshod,new directions taken,my final declaration.Best grammar roped in,bad syntax shakenwords skip down the sidewalkbypassing all mind blocks.Maybe…

By: Sunil Sharma The sunset on a clean beach is a haunting poem.  Dad said once. I could not understand then. Now, I do. Indeed. Such a sunset is sublime…like poetry. The lines flow. The colours, vivid, fuse. Energetic. It is…