c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by Cameron Murphy

& now see how Becca B.'s new BF Brock bought & brought a pack a cigs into dense mess a dark green craggy brown dank woods a Step-dad's ten-acre's strong stretch a back woods into which you trampled sticks & twigs & logs & such things & trekked w/ school friends Sarah V. & Karen C. & Becca B. & Becca B.'s new BF Brock after school's old bell rung shrilly @ three fifteen or so starting Weekend so all stopped by lockers & packed up backpacks & bolted out a Sacred Heart's black lot & strolled down suburb streets & streets & up a cul-de-sac's black hole a homes till Brock dude here about who you don't know @ all shows off stolen cigs to all & goes Hey let's go back in back woods back there which are Step-dad's back woods & go back there & smoke or you all too pussy or what & no you are not too pussy or what so you say cooly Yeah sure I guess then guiding all like Group Leader back behind Step-dad's shit blue-brick house & all climb up over wooden fence with fresh slats whitewashed & three shaking acres go by & Brock tells all Stop & all stop & Brock breaks out & shakes up pack of light khaki Camels & doles some out & de-pockets mini blue Bic lighter & lights up & blows out plumes of sick-smelling smoke & in turns all pass round the light & light up smokes & smoke & smoke the smokes & so now it's your turn & but now the Bic is all but lit-out & so Brock shrugs & just like Step-dad did & did & did @ Bedtime says in your body Don't worry baby girl I got you & skulks over & bends down & pecks his cig's bright butt to your dead dull butt & blows & blows & says Blow Baby Girl so you blow baby girl & you breathe baby girl & you burn for the boy the baby girl.



by A.J. Huffman

corners to this ceiling, and still swear
this room is round
as a ball and bouncing
to the beat of a desperately deaf drummer.
My mind cannot keep time, and the clocks
have all started whistling Dixie.
I dressed myself up as a myna bird, but
somebody traded me for a diamond
ring that I believe, without a doubt, is a fake.
Still it seemed like a fair trade,
so now I wait for the next sucker
with a dream to stroke my feathers.
Hope he likes backwood's blues
sung in the hallowed key of sinking slowly.

END OF THE DAY by Christopher Kildow Moon

END OF THE DAY by Christopher Kildow Moon

by Sharon Mahany

after photograph End of Day by Christopher Kildow Moon

three boys stand knee deep
watching time move in around them
ocean pushes folded waves
into its gaping, foamy mouth
white bubbles surge
breathing of give and take
the low hum of churning,
coaxing the earth into a series of snores

a bright orange fireball dives headfirst
into a grey storm-torn sky
tears it wide open, slashing
its cloud-covered canvas in two,
swallows the day whole,
continues to swallow the night
tucking darkness
into its folded corners
kissing the round red head
before switching off the light
oblivious to the three boys knee deep
watching time move in around them

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