By John Grey Damn. I’d have to really hate myself to believe she’s never coming back to me. Look in the mirror and throw up. Smash in my skull with a hammer. But I’m merely waiting here, as stoic as Zeno of Citium. So she left without a word. And I find nothing to console myself… Continue reading In My New England Home
Slip the gates—the ragged swell Leapt winged proud beyond the spell Oft muttered in dark ages past Cloying rope to curb mind's grasp To hold the antler from the ground Lest it pin the bearer down Cloudy tumult—star's expanse No grounding unto which to lance Bearing up—the diadem high A calamitous crown of infinite sky.
His scalding words—accost the court In chitin—pitch'd—with dark cavorts Cocottes scattered—cloisters cracked Quenchless gyre—consumption wracked His tower high—over the dead Blossoming fog—past colors fled.
PROSE From Fictive Dream: Pickers by D.S. Levy. A garage sale brings back old memories for a woman unusually devoid of sentimentality. Right, Colleen thought, just like the cow would match the purple moon hanging over their house. § From Jokes Review: ...In Space! A new issue of the satirical magazine. Will there be milk… Continue reading Circular 2/15/20
The barren plane, hushed and vast The arrow flies and must be passed The stage of contest, endless night The dark undone in curtains flight Threads of thought, like gold out-spun Threads of thought, to braid the sun To sculpt the stars, like wetted clay To hold the seasons, one must pay Coinage flowing—slick and red… Continue reading To Sculpt The Stars
PROSE From Cajun Mutt Press: Little Hymn In One Part by Mike James. "Once, he found a perfectly good leather dog leash re-used to wrangle passing clouds." (James, Little Hymn In One Part) ♦ From Every Day Fiction: Marathon Girl by Tim Boiteau. "Water station nine. Hydration, raisins, and knives, knives, knives. Knives for slashing,… Continue reading Circular 2/1/20
PROSE From Fictive Dream: Delirium by John C. Mannone. "The brick-lumps sifted through the black morph into swarms of fire ants with glassy-grit teeth." (Delirium) From Spelk: Letters to Dead People by Foster Trecost. “I sometimes write letters to my father, but he doesn’t read them.” “How do you know?” “Because dead people can’t read… Continue reading Circular 1/22/20