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MY CADAVER
by Rhony Bhopla It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat Sweat is carved off my brow, upper lip, with the edge of my entry card. Taut dead braid lies thick between my ghost fingers. Formaldehyde seething, permeates the taste of my spit. Ventricular contractions push my incontinent emotions to ponder whose dear will I dissect: mother, father, sister, brother. No need for modesty. All prone bodies are in the same room. Zippered black plastic veil covers their form, concealing the last morsel of shyness. Doctor hovers over podium peeling their ripe stories. I glove up. Breathe in for the dead. Between my fingers the scalpel reflects a restless shadow. |
SKULLS by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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THE GHOST OF SACRAMENTO PAST
by John Dorsey for gene bloom the kitchen is full of stock quotes and racing forms there is no christmas turkey and gene has been up half the night rolling joints in orderly piles the way they did it in sing sing the night we put a man on the moon. |
VERTIGINOUS VISAGE Oxford, UK by Brent Wiggans |
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SEARCHING AMONG TREES
by Yuan Changming In a forest beyond the boundary of mind I try to find a tree neither too tall, nor Too twisted, but what I did see is a Tree thickly bushy, and uniquely straight With every leaf glistening like a scar In the sun, a tree I long to date with Even to marry After I divorce my fated past |
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