The Couple, Blindly In Love By Isabalino Anastasio Guzman
Holy Cow By Chris Perry
How unusual this land of new sands the men adore me falling on robed knees at just my presence so unlike the hills of my homeland
I’ve seen many brothers led to demise, heard their cries erupt from blood-red barn taken by fellows not unlike these with bleached white faces
one voyage across vast, blue fields so rough to where the very stars have realigned watching masses weep when one, such as I, misfortune meets, crying over spilt milk and the blood of beef
Flowers By Eric Chase
He bought them and put them In a vase They slumbered on the table With a green tablecloth They were for someone Special They wilted They cried They Died Buried on a table With a green tablecloth
A Modern American Tomb By Neil Ellman
(after mixed media by Dylan Egon)
When the archaeologists dug him up from his tomb where Forest Lawn used to be his bones were neatly displayed like bric-a-brac in an étagère, a jeweled crucifix at his side; an electric guitar on which he surely played paeons to his other gods; Coca-Cola, sour mash whiskey, cigarettes used at orgiastic feasts and festivals; a watch to tell the time of day even in the afterlife and gun to keep the rabble at bay.
He must have been the King of America the scientists thought, buried with such pomp and opulence or just an average man interred with the toys he loved so much.
Pompei By Terry McGoldrick
My dreams are like the cremated remains of Pompei; hardly recognizable, in no way retrievable and none exist to inspire any succeeding day.
Left to the scientists to uncover- with their fine haired brushes and delicate chisels; and their hammers remove layers of time compressed;
while I pray to a Being often not recognizable yet essentially, retrievable– and to whom my sins are confessed.
For only one more DREAM, that does not solve but points me in a way– that will simply let me last so much longer, than the volcanic covered Pompei.
The Galleries of the Rain By Colin Dodds
The rocks protrude and elude resemblance, but allude and allude to something, like a speaker who doesn’t want to be held to what he says
Orange stones bask and brazenly insinuate human races too good to live, human races too vicious to survive, cities where gods and men broke bread, and lastly, the vast, faceless geological fable
Shattered sphinxes and zeppelin ports are all that remain of an illicit, divine coition abandoned at the moment the seabeds were raised and carved to statuaries, the statuaries melted to nonsense
In the end, it’s more than you think it is and less than you think it is, reads a message sent to me in the desert
The canyon where the Indians say the world was born now buzzes with lawnmowers, echoes with the barks of tourist children
Among the tri-fold brochures and minimum key replacement costs, the silence ululates It starts as a ringing in the ears and moves down the neck And something does come of it
Soon, I will return home to the innumerable forms like the stain in the tub, the bruise on my ass that would be beautiful if I didn’t know what they were