Howie Good Benediction Love everything that lives and be fair to all the parts and do not have a hierarchy, but should the uniforms come for you under cover of night eager to convey you into smoke, resolve to become like the drunks who, when sufficiently enraged, can just shrug off the paralyzing effects of […]
Read MoreHowie Good Martyrdom of a Curmudgeon What a sight it would be, me, with my heart plucked out of my body, still managing somehow to say, “It’s just 11 ounces, you morons,” before feral youth coldly scratch their names and affiliations all over it. Howie Good is the author of most recently of Stick Figure […]
Read MoreHowie Good In the Flesh I didn’t know that was even possible – to lie down with you and be fair to all the parts, and not have a hierarchy. Howie Good is the author of most recently of Stick Figure Opera from Cajun Mutt Press.
Read MoreIan Willey Empty Nest When they razed the field to make space for the last of the houses the killdeer no longer had any place to make their nests so they left, all but one, who somehow got into the blood of the woman living alone at the top of the hill, which is why […]
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Dream Fish A man fishes on a quiet lake in early morning mist casting out into the dark reflection of trees where dream fish rise, glistening in the silver sun. Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, which feels like a refuge in these dark times.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar What the Sirens Sang We are lashed to the mast, listening to the sirens sing of oil and coal and creatures dying in the shrinking woods. Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, which feels like a refuge in these dark times.
Read MoreH. Edgar Hix Sacrifice Having received an offering of a blood-red Ferrari with black leather seats and sterling silver hubcaps, the goddess traveled at light speed to the wild bees, came back with five gallons of raw honey, and poured it into the gas tank. H. Edgar Hix is already tired of 2020.
Read MoreFredric Hildebrand The Sound of Spring I recall a blackbird perched on our chimney, and the melting snow, and the ice gone overnight, and the homecoming of mallards, mergansers, goldeneyes, and geese to the open river, and the end of the slowed season with neighbors now out of their houses, this blackbird warming herself and […]
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