by Ankh Spice There were no windows and we spoke of home as therapy – those who had tongues not yet unhooked by their dosage Mrs Jesus sang, predictably– Ave, ave, the roasting flare of the sacred heart the warmest hearth – her rosarychattering DT-teeth in time with our rolling eyes Quiet Joni said nothing, but beyond her starved-skull-smile a Read More
Tag: nov 11 2019
Cocktails & Dreams, Baga, Goa
by Satya Dash quantum of pepper in a Bloody Mary so perfectequates tipsy to happy rolling down my throatin jeeps of pinwheel candy seducing stomachyou Sir be a fine mess belly blushing a baby’s pinkmy frame a door to seaweed pleasure to impermanenceland of bones heaped on sour cream a cathedral’s holyharmony of slow guzzling throat raised prostrateat gravity’s feet Read More
How You Belong in the World
by James Diaz You can find lacewings on warm nightstaking away what we don’t wantfeeding on aphid honeydewmicroscopic antlions clearing the fieldslike mommas with bad brainstossing babies into dumpstersby the freeway at night but I wonder, in our kingdom,who gets to decide that sort of thingwho among us is wantedand who just gets tossed to the bottomof the satchel even if Read More
Animals
by Jerry K. Robbins What if animals can stand apartFrom themselves, circumspectEven the lowly skink,Look around themselves and reflect“What am I to think?” What if a horse’s plaintive neighIs his way of announcingThat life is more thanRunning in circlesAt the beck and call of man What if an elephant coming across bonesThat once were enfleshed and aliveSees that these bones Read More
In Heaven There Is No Beer
by Robert Beveridge I lit a smoke, leanedagainst the wall. Customerswould come, I knew,they always did. Secondhandvegetables are a specialtymarket, but a popular one. The demand for used Brusselssprouts is on the rise. The wanein popularity of the gently-readhabanero is cyclical; these thingscome back into fashion, as sureas people will always shell outfor onion in uniform cubes. The old joke Read More
Goodbye to This and That
by Constance Woodring I am old. Thank God. I will be dying soon. Thank God.I made shrimp cocktail this evening. The shrimp were frozen, cooked and in a bag marked:“no chemicals added.”As I write this poem, I still have a taste in my mouth. As if I made swimming pool water shrimp dip.I do not have children. I do not Read More