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…
By: Isabelle Kenyon Flattened fur and dampened spirits, bodies too large to take refuge in long grass – you lie defeated, resigned but waiting. With eyes of fire you watch for prey.
By: Isabelle Kenyon Great clouds gather, hang like rotten fruit, Peppering the waves with their sour perfume. Salt–drizzled iceberg tickled by an arched bough a mermaid tail, somersaulting through Ocean’s silence, body twisting, Commanding the tides.
By: Ian Fletcher They bump into each other after thirty-five years at the funeral of a friend from university days whom cancer has taken from the world too soon. They’re both staying over so have arranged to chill that evening over…
By: Ricky Garni There is a bar named Honey’s that makes a delicious and exotic cocktail that uses filtered ocean water from Montauk in its recipe. Even though it sounds interesting and inspired, I am afraid to try it because…
By: Alyssa Trivett Newspaper cutout men danced in my head, my stomach bowling pin quakes, sits, stays, rolls over to machine beep symphonies. Bedpans slam-dance. I spy faint figures in hospital garbs; the ghosts of my dreams, as I see stars….