By: Roopa Menon The First Way Wear your best clothes. Statistics reveal that people who wear their favorite attire just before killing themselves suffer less. If you are not a sucker for statistics, don’t bother. Choosing where you commit the…

By: Bruce Levine Today, tomorrow, and always The future holding hands Moving forward Toward new beginnings Building on the past Without looking back Sharing the moments And making new mem’ries Wrapping each adventure In a satin ribbon And placing them…

By: Daniel Acosta, Jr. Prologue  At a very early age when I started grade school in 1951, I saw that the white kids at my school were the ones favored by the teachers, especially those who were smart and popular….

By Carl Papa Palmer WYSIWYG – What you see is what you get FYI, WTF is not where’s the fire,IIRC. (if I remember correctly)BTW, IANAL. (I am not a lawyer)IOW, IMAn00b. (a clueless newbie) A MOTOS (member of the opposite…

By: Bruce Levine Sometimes I just enjoy being surrounded by booksI sit in my library and look around There’s no purpose to the looking Other than the pleasure the looking brings by itself Shelves filled with books Objet d’art perched…

By: Simon Heathcote Others Can’t flowers be silent & birds sing?A late breeze kisses a single bladesetting off a Mexican wave of Irish green — a tsunami for little things to learn panic.I don’t see so well but I listen.There’s no escaping…

By: Grzegorz Wróblewski  ### Grzegorz Wróblewski was born in 1962 in Gdańsk and grew up in Warsaw. Since 1985 he has been living in Copenhagen. English translations of his work are available in Our Flying Objects (trans. Joel Leonard Katz, Rod Mengham, Malcolm…

By: Arvilla Fee Building Bridges hand me a plank;I’ll hand you a saw;together we will builda bridge across this chasm;we’ll all be brothers and sisters,sweating together beneath a sunhung in the universe for all mankind,drinking water from our father’s wells;we…

By: Margaret Marcum Fifteen and afraid. I made my family go away.And I record the days carefully in mycomposition book, as if knowing givesme control over disappearing, as if I’m ascientist of my body observing the durationof its disappearance from…

By: Mike Turner I stand upon rough, worn wood deckSalty tang of sea spray upon my lipsEying starched white canvas arching aloft against azure skiesEyes burning and watering from the reflectionFeeling rise and fall of straining hull against rolling wavesCool…