Untitled
By Joseph Lamb
Keys to life,
they may jangle
inconsequentially .
Learn to unlock the
hearts of ten million
souls without consent.
These lonely souls are atavistic,
and need a home.
No destinations for them,
and societies appeal for the
starveling has disappeared.
Mar 1, 2010
Daily Chores, D.P.Barbare
Daily Chores
By Danny P. Barbare
Watering
the
flowers
the
Petunias
on
a
summer's
day
after
the
water
becomes
cold
from
a
hose
that
is
green
especially
when
the
wind
blows
unexpectedly.
By Danny P. Barbare
Watering
the
flowers
the
Petunias
on
a
summer's
day
after
the
water
becomes
cold
from
a
hose
that
is
green
especially
when
the
wind
blows
unexpectedly.
Fire, J.Swenson
Fire
By Jack Swenson
He sat down at the bar and ordered a Diet Coke. She breezed in ten minutes later. "Sorry I'm late," she said. He waved it off.
He looked at her across the table. He smiled. Eskimo eyes. She had squinty eyes. That's why he didn't like her. You can't tell what someone is thinking if you can't see her eyes.
She said what she had come to say. She spoke her mind. At first it was just chit chat. “No more drinking, she asked? Never, ever?” He nodded. “One day at a time,” he said.
But that wasn't it. That wasn't what was on her mind. That came after they had their lunch. "Seen Janet since you've been back?" she asked. He shook his head. "No," he lied.
She pointed her face at him. "I don't believe you," she said. He shrugged. He leaned forward and put his hand on hers. "It's you and only you," he said.
She took back her hand. She started to cry. He gave her his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes.
He told her a story he had heard in rehab. A woman (with eyes just like hers) was at the front of the room telling her story. She looked worn out, exhausted. She had fallen asleep smoking a cigarette. She was drunk. The house burned down, and her two children were killed.
He shook his head. He looked earnestly at her. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning her face. "Can you imagine?" he said. "How could you live with something like that?"
They left the restaurant together. When they got outside, he put on his sunglasses. They went their separate ways. She made a U-turn and drove past as he started his car. She waved. He looked both ways, then pulled out and drove off in the opposite direction.
By Jack Swenson
He sat down at the bar and ordered a Diet Coke. She breezed in ten minutes later. "Sorry I'm late," she said. He waved it off.
He looked at her across the table. He smiled. Eskimo eyes. She had squinty eyes. That's why he didn't like her. You can't tell what someone is thinking if you can't see her eyes.
She said what she had come to say. She spoke her mind. At first it was just chit chat. “No more drinking, she asked? Never, ever?” He nodded. “One day at a time,” he said.
But that wasn't it. That wasn't what was on her mind. That came after they had their lunch. "Seen Janet since you've been back?" she asked. He shook his head. "No," he lied.
She pointed her face at him. "I don't believe you," she said. He shrugged. He leaned forward and put his hand on hers. "It's you and only you," he said.
She took back her hand. She started to cry. He gave her his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes.
He told her a story he had heard in rehab. A woman (with eyes just like hers) was at the front of the room telling her story. She looked worn out, exhausted. She had fallen asleep smoking a cigarette. She was drunk. The house burned down, and her two children were killed.
He shook his head. He looked earnestly at her. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning her face. "Can you imagine?" he said. "How could you live with something like that?"
They left the restaurant together. When they got outside, he put on his sunglasses. They went their separate ways. She made a U-turn and drove past as he started his car. She waved. He looked both ways, then pulled out and drove off in the opposite direction.
Untitled, K.Ailes
Untitled
By Katie Ailes
Jesus came into my Starbucks today
Ordered a caramel machiato
skim milk
extra espresso
no whipped cream
Please.
I saw his cross behind him
Like so many sandbags
Dark musky aura
Baggage.
Christ
stirred with his pinky finger out
And burned his tongue when he sipped.
I looked for golden bubbles on his lips
When he said ‘Thanks.’
I must have blinked,
for all I saw was a need for Chapstick.
When he walked out,
I found a splinter of his cross
on the tiled floor.
I swept it into the dustbin
With the rest of the refuse of the
children of God.
By Katie Ailes
Jesus came into my Starbucks today
Ordered a caramel machiato
skim milk
extra espresso
no whipped cream
Please.
I saw his cross behind him
Like so many sandbags
Dark musky aura
Baggage.
Christ
stirred with his pinky finger out
And burned his tongue when he sipped.
I looked for golden bubbles on his lips
When he said ‘Thanks.’
I must have blinked,
for all I saw was a need for Chapstick.
When he walked out,
I found a splinter of his cross
on the tiled floor.
I swept it into the dustbin
With the rest of the refuse of the
children of God.
Feb 21, 2010
Creative Displacement, J.Farley
Creative Displacement
By Joseph Farley
Clickety clack
clickety clack
they keys rattle
a train on track
where does it go?
what does it carry?
Floor sweepings
and disposable verses,
edging, arguing, falling, failing
towards something grander
than the small station
from which it left.
By Joseph Farley
Clickety clack
clickety clack
they keys rattle
a train on track
where does it go?
what does it carry?
Floor sweepings
and disposable verses,
edging, arguing, falling, failing
towards something grander
than the small station
from which it left.
Popcorn, J.Bloomfield
Popcorn
By James Bloomfield
I'm working late at the office. The office is on the highest floor of a gargantuan tower block, a tribute to the technological achievement of man. Seven hundred offices and four canteens and a television room and a small cinema all packaged in one towering, phallic, steel monstrosity.
I'm alarmed when a blinding flash lights the office from somewhere outside. The mighty glass windowpanes rattle softly in their frames, buffeted by shock waves from a colossal bomb that has just fallen on the heart of the city.
A flotilla of unmarked black airplanes cruise the night sky, barely discernible.
Many more bombs drop and I press myself against the glass in stunned horror, watching as families of buildings fold into dust. At first I holler down to the people below, futilely attempting to warn them of their doom. I pound on the glass with my fists, weeping and yelling out until I am exhausted and cannot cry any longer.
Eventually I feel drained, numbed, and I watch the tireless patterns of dust storms and infernos, hypnotized. I take the elevator to the ground floor and return soon after with a large bucket of sweet, sickly popcorn and a soft drink from the staff cinema. I bring the Director's plush leather chair into my office and I sit down resignedly to watch the anarchy.
I tune the radio momentarily into an emergency broadcast that brings news of a synchronized attack on no less than two hundred major cities worldwide. Everybody knows it is the end of the civilized world but nobody knows who is flying the unmarked black planes.
The frequency of the intense bombing never diminishes and by dawn the entire city is a flattened wasteland.
My building alone never falls.
By James Bloomfield
I'm working late at the office. The office is on the highest floor of a gargantuan tower block, a tribute to the technological achievement of man. Seven hundred offices and four canteens and a television room and a small cinema all packaged in one towering, phallic, steel monstrosity.
I'm alarmed when a blinding flash lights the office from somewhere outside. The mighty glass windowpanes rattle softly in their frames, buffeted by shock waves from a colossal bomb that has just fallen on the heart of the city.
A flotilla of unmarked black airplanes cruise the night sky, barely discernible.
Many more bombs drop and I press myself against the glass in stunned horror, watching as families of buildings fold into dust. At first I holler down to the people below, futilely attempting to warn them of their doom. I pound on the glass with my fists, weeping and yelling out until I am exhausted and cannot cry any longer.
Eventually I feel drained, numbed, and I watch the tireless patterns of dust storms and infernos, hypnotized. I take the elevator to the ground floor and return soon after with a large bucket of sweet, sickly popcorn and a soft drink from the staff cinema. I bring the Director's plush leather chair into my office and I sit down resignedly to watch the anarchy.
I tune the radio momentarily into an emergency broadcast that brings news of a synchronized attack on no less than two hundred major cities worldwide. Everybody knows it is the end of the civilized world but nobody knows who is flying the unmarked black planes.
The frequency of the intense bombing never diminishes and by dawn the entire city is a flattened wasteland.
My building alone never falls.
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