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- SPRING ISSUE #1 2010
- SUMMER FALL ISSUE #2 2010
- WINTER ISSUE #3 2010
- SPRING ISSUE #4 2011
- SUMMER ISSUE #5 2011
- FALL ISSUE #6 2011
- WINTER ISSUE #7 2012
- SPRING ISSUE #8 2012
- SUMMER ISSUE #9 2012
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Ebb and Flow:
You spiderweb the rain. Act
as if it wasn't everywhere.
Umbrellas flare out as if
rubber reptiles and birds
feather you, hide you
and your cumulus
home. Gray as shivering bougainvillea
as if web-petals. Lights grow:
one off
on again
fade to blank. Flounder
as only a flounder can ebb.
And flow through water. Arms
tucked into sides
look like fins to
fan cold flames.
Stalactite down, jail-house
prodigy. Learn with the learning of
sharks. Your arm-fins
will breach water.
The Folly of a Love Story:
A toad in the desert
holds an umbrella for the
sky, thinking
"Give me, give me."
There is no rain here.
Only the clouds hold
chrysalis ice, and the
drought-to-erase-all-
droughts that follows.
Icicle people strain open ribs
moving back muscle mass
to reveal pumping hearts.
"Give me, give me."
There is no warmth here.
Fallout:
Less sense of time than
Stonehenge blocks ripped in
two halves to parallel
brother with brother.
Urgency! Urgency!
Our red-brick follies
are tearing fabric
seams.
Give us answers. Goldfish
are falling from nuclear skies.
Torrent of mutilated corn
husks—wither-yellow,
abounding—are seeping down
blue clouds.
That rain burns us.
You spiderweb the rain. Act
as if it wasn't everywhere.
Umbrellas flare out as if
rubber reptiles and birds
feather you, hide you
and your cumulus
home. Gray as shivering bougainvillea
as if web-petals. Lights grow:
one off
on again
fade to blank. Flounder
as only a flounder can ebb.
And flow through water. Arms
tucked into sides
look like fins to
fan cold flames.
Stalactite down, jail-house
prodigy. Learn with the learning of
sharks. Your arm-fins
will breach water.
The Folly of a Love Story:
A toad in the desert
holds an umbrella for the
sky, thinking
"Give me, give me."
There is no rain here.
Only the clouds hold
chrysalis ice, and the
drought-to-erase-all-
droughts that follows.
Icicle people strain open ribs
moving back muscle mass
to reveal pumping hearts.
"Give me, give me."
There is no warmth here.
Fallout:
Less sense of time than
Stonehenge blocks ripped in
two halves to parallel
brother with brother.
Urgency! Urgency!
Our red-brick follies
are tearing fabric
seams.
Give us answers. Goldfish
are falling from nuclear skies.
Torrent of mutilated corn
husks—wither-yellow,
abounding—are seeping down
blue clouds.
That rain burns us.