MEMORY WISP
by Michaela Erwin The music box sat on the window ledge in Grandma's room: a clown child with a red-painted smile and ebony eyes that twinkled under the sunlight. My small hands would wind the key until thick clicks echoed and chimes sailed in, and the clown revolved in dance, taking me to the lush lawn and concrete of the driveway where I would hum the melody for Grandma while she stood tall and brunette with wisps of gray, smoking Kools in the garage. Now cloaked in dust, the clown weighs in my bony hands with decades of wear, a song that flows like lava smoke caught in my thinning hair and gears that hardly turn. |
A ROOM TIBILISI, GEORGIA by Baxter Jackson |
PATINA
by Roger G. Singer It was called, "The Hotel." Like a childhood friend known by one name. The lobby exhibited signs of artistic death. There were overused red velvet chairs. A couch without cushions. Ceiling fans without life. Strips of wallpaper peeling Like a melting glacier. Many have passed through the thick wooden and glass doors onto black and white tiled checkerboard floors showing the wear of time. The radio speaks about vacations far away. No one listens. |
SUBMERGED YEREVAN, ARMENIA by Baxter Jackson |
TWELVE A.M., DECEMBER 12, 1912
by Steven D. Pace Derby-headed men play the eardrums like Teardrops on a bottle of absinthe There is snow flight all around as I sit Un-thwarted here in Ceylon A mindset within a mindset in the haze Of a hundred cigars belching Coal dust and coal gas un-adorably Becoming dark green-licorice horizons Here to warrant cocaine up the nose (xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx) Giving freeze to aproned waiters, who flash-frozen Hold towels under each left arm Yet there is no impact, no effect The blast hits indifferent rococo posts (complete with nude busts) Or teardrop gas lamps overhead Like acres and acres of zwartkopf fields As I, an albino dove Near the bottle to speak red-eyed Immobility in action landing ever near But further from diversionary Splashes of zodiac fury against Midnight in Ceylon |