This month marks the 70th anniversary of the death of Wolfgang Borchert, a young German writer who was seriously wounded in World War II then imprisoned for resistance activities. Physically destroyed, he lived only two years after the war. During…
By: Adrian Slonaker Wolves should be snarlingly brutal, not pining meekly for your meaty feet shod with Earth shoes. Wolf-tails shouldn’t wag when wolf-ears are stroked by your bloodstone- and onyx-ringed fingers. Wolves should display dominance, not yielding to tameness when…
By: Adrian Slonaker Peering at a prosaic painting on the ceiling, I want to tap my digits to Dusty Springfield while I’m on my back, and my chompers get scraped to panda-eyed pathos. The chanteuse wants to stay awhile, but months…
By: Jami Miller A solar eclipse lassoed my windshield to Colorado flowers lingering on I-70, while the interstate whispered, “escape,” and Atlanta hid in a corner of my rearview. I chose to chase the sun and run from the moon through…
By: Jami Miller I have learned how to bow down to tombstones from all the skeletons who have undressed before me, the headless dandelions that snuck away with the wind, and the carnations thrown under the skin of the earth. I…
By: Milt Montague clusters of apartment houses once found only in the city now appearing in the suburbs huddled together for protection the metropolis moves to the burbs offering apartment house services to tenants in a small town environment no…
By: Milt Montague the ostrich is a funny bird seemingly put together from odds and ends or leftover parts two long skinny legs a neck to match sticking out of a football shaped body lush black/white wing feathers larger more…
By: Paulo Lorenzo L. Garcia I pity the man who will love you when I’m through. Late at night, he’ll catch your restless eyes peeping through the roof for stars I named after you and when he follows each star from…
By: Paulo Lorenzo L. Garcia You’re like a star So near, yet so far and I am a starburst Of white-hot rage cursing the horizon dividing us two and once snuffed out by senile rage our story begins anew I have…
By: Paulo Lorenzo L. Garcia Walking through the train station on a hard day’s night I see her bob cut brush short of her shoulders. From behind I could make out a smile that fanned from one ear to the other…