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GRIM REAPER
by Timothy Pilgrim Stuff of executioner, what makes her tick? Steady hand, piercing gaze — iced lemonade in veins? Does she dream of home, children, relaxing run, garden beans, morning sun? Begin to cry as she beheads serial killer, former lover, enemy of state? Or, toss hood aside, text fate, drive her hybrid, naked, past graveyards late at night? |
MUERTOS FAMILIA by Myles Boisen |
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4 AM
by B.Z. Niditch French bread resembling a quarter moon murdered on the granite table an hour ago by the tentative night The artist drawn to exhaustion of a lost landscape in solitude clothed by sleeplessness. |
AFTER NIGHTFALL: Candlelight Vigil for Chi Cheng by Allyson Seconds |
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CAPITAL LOSS
by Frank De Canio If once upon a time I told myself adventures that were bold, I learned to settle down in life, exchanging violent storms and strife for sober worlds that compensate frustrated longing for a mate with social ties I stood to gain in time. Now that my fortunes wane I find no reason to withhold those fancies which, though grey and old, resume their stranglehold on me with an inflated currency that drains the pittance I have left and leaves me with its sum, bereft. |
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