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STEPHEN CRANE'S HOUR
by B.Z. Niditch In an hour of America's horror of war when longing for peace exposed as your red badge worn today as poppies on your own Joseph's coat of courage in an open boat traveling over the sea as all cloudy day stars were deeply etched all over the map in innocence from a language of liberty but who could now grasp Nagasaki, Dachau, the Gulag. |
THE FORGOTTEN (Ink) by Allen Forrest |
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1949 TILL NOW
by William S. Gainer The year I was born the rubble of war lingering the great machines being tore down repurposed sold for scrap their DNA still pulsing in the automobiles trucks, tanks bombs the spoon that dips my evening soup. |
FAC/DIS 3 by Kyle Hemmings |
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HELICOPTERS IN TANGLE
by Laura Carter War again. Or is it war? Or is it something different from the usual? One polka-dot woman eschews sex because she can, hording an automatic rifle for use with those who arrive too much stoned. Someone wants to expose her to the blue light, the lilac-tinted hue of Madonnas carrying babies on Christmas, Easter, and all holidays that might remind you of the old Christian days. It's not war. It's only the sound of the Alpine meadowlands' clacking needles, making the Seine into a place of obstinacy instead of a place where you might take a lover for a dirty night, or eat red oysters and lentils whimsically, just for fun just for fun just for fun just for fun just for just for. And then she meets someone. She used to be a river made of salt, eating crumpets like any ordinary Civil War reenactor's girlfriend might. But she meets someone. The world is not a Georgia O'Keeffe painting, is it? She used to eat honey with a blank spoon, a spoon with no markings, and she used to bleed from her thigh when she was eating. But there never was River as an allegorical form of rivers. And there never was Lake as an allegory. And there never was a competitor, was there? Maybe there were competitors, but she did not notice who they were, and she did not care what they thought of her. It's like kissing the Alpine meadowlands off into the moonland where the unicorns all gather. Someone would say this is the same thing as gentle. She's suddenly less anxious. |
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