By Bob Mcneil
Internet spam is what soda is to teeth.
(This is not a scam.)
What junk food is to health.
(We will transfer funds to you.)
What moonshine is to ulcers.
(We will ship products to you.)
What warts are to orifices.
(Go to our website for more information.)
What javelins are to anuses.
(This offer is perfect for you.)
What protestation is to time.
By Lauren Scott
His mind floated through life
where it couldn’t be stopped,
even his logic kept flight
Her face controlled his dreams
as he struggled between the
crevices of reality
below the moon’s supervision
He desired to write poetry,
wordless poetry on her silky skin,
how the touch and taste of her
would be rich to his spirit
But knowing she was far
out of reach,
her whispered kisses
wove softly through his fingers
You had your prime on bourbon street.
Not in New Orleans. No.
A fraternity room with its neon “Bourbon Street” plaque above the bar.
“Show me your tits!”
Thrown into the air, flying, defying gravity.
Draped around a victor’s neck. Ceremony.
Slipped off in haste, too many choking beads.
A spectacle of flesh, a moment of thrill, a digital scar forever.
Then swung and tossed into the river.
Discarded, faded, washed up.
A cheap, plastic plaything.
My father is a Pluto, an ex-human in our lives, declared the past but still hangs in somewhere. Maybe he is far and insignificant. But howsoever I try to put the thought of him aside he breathes by the corner, patiently and quietly, undesirous of anything else. He is like the speck of dust that falls on my floor every time I swipe it clean. Where is he now, in a gutter lying unconscious or with another woman, subjugating her to norms of WHASSH, WHACK, WHOOK … SLAP, and silence …, perhaps dead?
By Erik Porter
Given gifts of thought, of reasoning, of questioning.
Abilities to research, discover, and invent.
We learn early on to question.
We can satisfy ourselves with many answers, yet fixate on the why.
Why? Why? Why?
Like a young child first learning, we ask this question throughout our lives.
Why? Why? Why?
Answers never come.
Held close to his chest, never revealing his truth.
We hope, we search for answers. When at last we join them will the answers come?
Will we suffer knowing those left behind ask the same. We have no answer to give.
We wait for the why.
By L. Stewart Marsden
The Snap! of cheek red’ning chill;
The Crackle! of gold and sable bills underfoot;
The Pop! of jeweled hills in the late day sun;
I love the first bowlful of Autumn,
Poured out and ready to be
By Edd B. Jennings
Some people believe in time.
They see their lives
With a distinct past, present, and future.
They would posit
The past is gone, the future is not here.
The time you can hold and touch is now.
If they can’t have the moment,
They mean to take the illusion.
They may be right.
I’m not wrapped that tight.
It may be a mental disorder
For all I know,
But I don’t find time simple.
I have no will to try.
If the past is gone,
A love could be lost.
I couldn’t bear it.
A gesture, a scent, is forever.
Edd B. Jennings runs cattle along the New River in the mountains of Virginia.