By Yash Seyedbagheri stir words like alphabet soup even if they get soggy poet in beret proclaims with glued smile and eyes covered in shadows jumble them around a bit more, leave enough space to breathe. and don’t create lines   of the moon, a field of flowers, packages festooned with gold bows a pink…

By Vivian Wagner There’s sand everywhere here, white crystals in sandals, on the floor, in the rugs. Each one’s a world, waiting to discover its fate. And each one eventually gets swept out the door.

By Karuna Mistry Let me take you on a voyage Where no one has gone before Of cosmic inner-stellar space Assimilate these words I speak From my mind to your mind My thoughts to your thoughts As my mind’s data to yours is Beamed across light years To your sub-cosmos-ness You will find answers through…

By Steve Anc There is a voice on the hole and a voice on the hill. There is a voice on the sea and a voice on the breeze. There is a voice in the forest and a voice in the garden. There is a voice in the river and a voice in the moon.…

By LaVern Spencer McCarthy “Who wants to go next?” Barney asked.. “Somebody must,” replied Sylvester. “Be a volunteer,” Barney suggested. “No,” answered Sylvester. Barney frowned. “All of us must go sometime. It’s best to get it over with.” Of the ten men present, none was willing to go next. Conversation stopped when a country-yokel- type…

By LaVern Spencer McCarthy At the table, a séance— Eyes are closed, hands clasp other hands. Jewels on wealthy fingers generate prisms by candlelight. The medium moans, calling Fred, lost at sea a year ago. behind her rolled-back eyes she thinks of money to be made, ignores tears of Fred’s aging wife who cannot find…

By Howie Good “Better call someone,” I say to my wife, who is standing beside me at the window, peering up at the sky with a worried expression. By the time the emergency vehicles start arriving, the clouds look even more like what the painter Magritte long claimed clouds look like – thoughts. Is the…

By Howie Good Around midnight I had finally given up trying to turn the stale words and phrases on the screen of my laptop into a scrap of poetry, and instead had retreated to our old green couch and started fingerpicking my way through a song that despite my questionable musicianship you would have recognized…

By Howie Good It was the end of the American Century, and as if at a secret signal, the streets suddenly filled up with dancing grannies. I looked into their doll-like painted faces for an explanation. What I saw instead were suicide nets, abortions by wire coat hanger, piles of broken bricks. Life in our…