Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Last Night

by Martha Landman

it was 1952 and a man with bleak brown hair
walked in my shoes. His raincoat grabbed
my attention, inspired in me a wild passion.
Feet covered in mud we orbited into a place
littered with broken calendars. I slipped
into finely grounded rock dust and smelled
fear — our dialogue was like gunfire, we took
turns to sleep in the rapeseed field across
from a pedestrian bridge; somewhere
a door slammed. By morning the breeze
wafted pollen into my eyes. We soldiered
on through sun, storms and sand until
we stumbled upon a toothless woman feeding
tuna to the wild dolphins, flies lazed around
fermented food on the rocks. Her words,
covered by a lopsided grin, stung like pepper.

Diorama Leda and the Taxidermy God

by Robert Gross

There are no words for
the way into

the thicket of silence
the mute swan

stuffed and mounted
hovering above
the bathing beauty

a solitary conception
of negative space
and feathered lust

a cold calculus of a hot

number series randomized
behind glass

on a plaster of paris
river bank

painted flat
with real feathers
and consenting illusions


by Larry Jones

My friend Jack is 74.
Me, I'm 72,
we've known each other
since we were teens.

Back when every other word was obscene.

Jack can no longer
use the f-word.

They got to him,
God and the PC Cops.

Washed his brain.
Saved his soul.

I called him up,
asked him how the fuck
he's doing and how's the fucking weather
up there in Alaska.

Fine, he said
and the weather's good.

Jack can't use the f-word.

Now the cocksucker offends me.


by Rita Budrionis

On my knees, I pulled up her socks
        Socks she hated
        Socks she couldn’t grasp
Dirty  beige with rubber tracks like crushed cereal on the sole.
She would have hated that
        if she’d known they were socks.

She complained in phrases without verbs.
Birds spoke her native tongue.
Outside!    To me!
I laughed at the joke that wasn’t
        because she did.
Arm in arm
       we walked in her horror.

She became both more and less of who she had been.

She walks toward me in dreams now
silver stockings, starburst slippers
My mother
Gaily toasting with her wine glass or
        sitting quietly by my side

As I remember her.
But I’m not there yet,
not yet.

The Passage of Time

by Robert Nisbet

His shop in the arcade Ron called
The Passage of Time. As you went in
you saw a hundred timepieces, alarm clocks,
carriage clocks and digitals,
watches in cabinets, time banked high.
Seeing that cog-wheeling certainty
I wondered at the way that Ron,
through every second of each eight-hour day,
would know, click-ticked, brain-deep,
the time, the time, the time.

For a while one summer, I helped him out.
And he’d say, each day, leaving Pearl in charge,
Mid-morning coffee, John? Time for our break?
I started to log the times.
11.25        11.38        11.33
Around eleven-thirty. Mid-morning-ish.
And later in the day, he’d say, Time
to start packing up. I logged these too.
5.18        5.22        5.15
Quarter to twenty past. Roughly.

O Ron, I saw your full achievement then,
such joy in the approximate,
your days’ emancipation,
proof now against the clocks’ harsh trek,
proof too against the scurrying of time.

Booze Death Poem

by Catfish McDaris

Sitting on an Umbrian mountain top
missing my lady, I decided I’d drink
myself to death, I’d been sober for ages

Fresh beverages with grapes and strawberries
absinthe with cayenne salt and chile infused
mezcal, brandy sidecars, tincture of amaro in
a Manhattan, burnt spice julep, artichoke Cynar
king of carrot flowers, coconut oil and Thai
basil laced with gin and vodka, rum and
scotch with ginger, lemon, and egg white

The sky purpled, the wind gathered thunder
the storm sagged toward the ground, funnel
clouds wobbled down vacuuming everything
in their path, relentless unstoppable

Suddenly I’m holding a list, it appears to come
from a doctor or a hospital, laughing I read it:

678 cases of diarrhea;
167, constipation;
26, hemorrhoids;
456, indigestion;
372, foreign bodies in the eyes;
375, severe headaches;
648, episodes of fainting and exhaustion;
71, cases of extreme flatulence;
178, cases of teeth that hurt like hell.

Thursday, April 30, 2015


by Kristofer Collins

They lock up the library early but all the homeless
have their own key and drink wine there
late into the morning, and when I walked into that bar
it was The Moonglows and Allen Toussaint, it was all
top-shelf and after awhile the women were almost apple-cheeked
and smoked endless packs of generic cigarettes. Here we border
West Virginia and Vatican City, the weather is never surprising
in its ceaselessness and the fogged-over mornings. The hospital is hiring
and your high school girlfriend is moving back, divorced and dragging
children with her into her parents' house, lost her virginity
to you right there on the the floor and, after you passed out
from that sad release & too many beers, sat under
the three faint stars glowing out over the mill, her hands
already callused at sixteen.


by Marc Carver

I noticed the youngish attractive - ish woman sat with the ugly old man
I thought they must be hope for us all
then i thought
what the hell is going on here
as they cuddled and whispered into each other's faces
Then i noticed the guide dog and walking stick
and it all made sense
I wish i could say the same for the rest of life.

Syrian belly dancer
to Basher al-Assad

by Amir Darwish

UN. Fountain of blood. Ready.
The stage is set for you.
You appear
Men clap
Hips examined, re-examined again and again.

Belly-dancing costume not too revealing!
They shout.
You take off a layer
Then another and another,
Not yet nude, but you will be soon.

Up you jump, landing in the fountain of blood.
You splash the watching men,
Their tongues slide out, roaming over aces licking blood.
Unreachable spots lickable by others next to them.

They enjoy it.
‘Do it again, again,’ they chant.

Up you jump, landing more firmly.
Blood flies, reaching glasses, faces, food.
Glasses are emptied, food is eaten, faces are licked.
Loud clapping.

Jump, land, splash
Jump, land, splash
Jump, land, splash
There is no more blood left in the fountain.
But they still ask for more.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015


by Nancy Scott McBride

As soon as the blossoms open fully,
the bees come to gather the precious pollen.
They’re all business, the bees,
working the trees from dawn to dusk
until the petals fade and fall.
Time was, when my ears were in better shape,
I could hear the buzzing from the back porch,
fifteen or twenty feet away.
Now I wait for traffic noise to slow on the road,
then walk out, stand under the nearest tree and
let the sound envelope and invade me,
not so much hearing as feeling it.
It comes inside me and takes me over,
the ecstasy of creatures doing the one single
thing they were born to do. And in this way
the yearly ritual becomes a part of me.
I am the singing and the song,
the humming and the honey.

to be selfish

by Linda M. Crate

you say it's selfish
for a woman's
body to be
her own,
but in what way is that
a woman should still be considered
herself even if she falls
and she has more voice
than a corpse
so why should she be silenced simply
because she wants rights to
her own body?
i think you're the selfish one, sir,
demanding that a woman
give her life to a child that may or may
not endanger her life
and you do not know the circumstances
that lay in her path
she is more than a mere vessel for
bringing children into this
so we will not listen to men like you
we will be selfish if we must—
our bodies, our hearts, our dreams, our ambitions
are our own and even if they include
the choice is ours and ours alone.

Dance of Love

by Meetu Nadir

Today we meet
You soak me inside yourself
Love me, worship me
Adore my every curve
Fill me with life

I hold on to you
Intoxicated completely
In the wine of love
You pour into me
Through your tantalizing fingers

Your shivering lips
Move up and down my body
And melt my defenses
With your moist kisses
My skin is set on fire
Burning me inside out
With something like desire

In the pouring droplets of rain
We are drenched together
Our twisted tangled bodies
And our mingled breaths
Silently unify us
And together we both
Enjoy this dance of love!

Dares & Knuckles

by Paul Tristram

I was in the Infant School at morning break time,
drinking free milk from a pyramid cardboard container
through a thin red plastic straw inserted through
a small round hole with silver paper covering it.
When one of the Teachers came rushing up to me
and asked nervously “Is your Father Ok now,
I heard about what happened last night, it’s horrific?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my Father, he’s fine,
what do you mean?” I frowned and demanded back.
Just then, another Teacher appeared and said hurriedly
“It’s not this one, it’s his smaller Cousins, you know,
the ones who live over on Caewathan Council Estate!”
I found out later that one of my Uncles and another
Criminal were playing ‘Dare & Knuckles’ drunk
with an hatchet on the kitchen table the night before
which resulted in my Uncle getting the top half of both
his left fore and middle fingers completely chopped off.
(He could never again make roll-ups and smoked
Benson & Hedges straights, right up until he died!)
One of the women present there had franticly picked
them up whilst hysterically screaming and cast them
into the open fire, hence they could not even attempt
to sew them back on. (It’s weird watching a couple of bits
of yourself burn over there whilst you’re sat over here,
my Uncle often mused, whilst ‘in his cups’ for years after!)
My Father went out for 3 whole days and nights searching
for that ‘Dead Guy’ with an iron bar tucked up in his coat
but he’d strangely and mysteriously disappeared completely.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

We have just arrived at the entrance of Arabia

Amir Darwish

We are at the entrance of Arabia
Where smells of spices walk in our heads
Lose themselves in our brains’ streets
And dissolve into crowd of notions
As we blink to one another in agreement.

The world vanishes into our shimmering eyes
Where reflections show men of steel falling into
Lines of honour
We stare lengthy into each other.

My Habiby
It’s dawn at the gates of our hearts
Let sit
Break the fast
By the bank of our arteries.

We need hairless seedless skins
To empty our sentimental tongues and
Water love to watch it grow
Then see it fade into our souls forever.

Sweet heart
Let’s halt ships of honour
When they depart the flood of tears
Then let them loose into
The pool of your eyes.

Let see how much you can take into your
Carefully crafted shrine
As we both truthfully speak nonsense
Fall out of reality
And into love again and again.

Elwood’s Apartment

by Todd Mercer

Because it was the very cheapest option. That’s why
the year spent holed up in a broom closet
off the stairs’ landing. Because of convenience,
immediate proximity to public transit. Rats learn
to sleep with these monsters barreling through
a couple feet beyond the window. They let the shake
take them, they don’t resist. You could reach out
and touch that southbound Pink Line Express.
Don’t do it though, you’d lose a hand,
the train would keep moving. Because he aged out
of the orphanage only to pull years in prison,
Elwood is suspicious of spacious spaces. Give him
a basic base, that’s good enough. Because the mission
is what matters, not the stock of real estate,
not these thought-erasing interruptions
every few minutes. Because if it’s a hovel,
at least it is his hovel. “How often, really?”
Jake asks, as trains blow by full clatter,
both directions. Elwood’s rippin’ zzzzzzs.

Makes Forever Shorter

by Donal Mahoney

When a bullet goes in
and doesn’t come out
you read about it
in the paper, hear
about it on TV.

A person takes a bullet
near the heart and learns
a surgeon can't remove it.
It's part of him forever.
Happens like a drive-by

shooting when a loved one
makes a comment no
apology can remove.
The loved one doesn't
know there’s a problem,

doesn’t realize lightning
through the cerebellum
is by far a better option.
Doesn't let the victim linger.
Makes forever shorter.

Mannish Boy
for Bob Pajich

by Kristofer Collins

I will never know what Muddy Waters
thought in his green suit and chunky gold
ring as his leg leaps up and crashes down
and his cheeks shake anymore than I
could say on such and such day
Einstein had a hard-on watching
the students pass under his ivied window,
and I might as well admit I used to spy
on our neighbor, a woman known to prepare
meals in the nude, the brown medallions
of her areolas still bring a tiny pain
to my groin, so it should come as no surprise
as we sit on a brick porch in East McKeesport,
or stumble out of some bar on Electric Ave.,
or when Nathan, rolling a cigarette in the booth
at Nico's, leans in to laugh at something
one of us has said and someone in the other room
yells, “Fuck, shit!” at the lottery drawing
that I wish I could say how any one of us
got here but really I do understand it doesn't matter
and there's a green suit out there waiting
for each of us eventually.


by Randall Rogers

are getting old.

We are seeing more people with facial moles and growths now,
John Boy used to wield the largest facial mole in the Game,
didn't protrude enough though

So one may say
Create a respite from the toils of any age aging
of seeing for yourself the years and
what is and has been occurring for some time
and doesn't seem to be going to stop until...
soon the grave and not much else till then
more Turner Classic movies and "Golden Girls" episodes
geez, we age and don't you know?
the world never stopped, but for moments, during your prime
maybe get some weed
now that we can get it, legally,
and being a Grateful Dead fan
now twenty, thirty some
years after Jerry's death
to follow the Dead now being
said to be a respectable, free-thinking
hip thing to do
kinda thought it was irresponsible ''carnival" style
multi-day freaking out of an LSD party at its best,
and long running.
We ignore, however, those that never really
made it all the way back
to be a normal vacuum
job holding, home-owning,
child having member of the
petite bourgeoisie.

Some folk say Garcia alone
was responsible for leading astray
a quarter of the youthful population of the era
Over a thirty year run with the Dead
 (and the side projects all members of the Dead did)
Garcia liberated by the music and lifestyle (his own)
Though many of those freed, it is said, were doomed or enlightened
to live high-travelling, organic and free,
and are now herb toking old age mellow folk
some now captains the ships of their own industry
still experienced and experiencing.

Come now that we might be able to, allow
free currently illegal drugs, especially weed
and as A. Huxley put it;
give me injections of good LSD
when it's close I shall die.
Leary like.

Baby Boom elderly
say it can't be so!
long hair and tripping drugs
groovy media and good eats
resting body if one must but
 mind taking in whirring the kaleidoscope
in the freedom of old age
hear the colors
 of life tasting the sweet
of impending demise,
a bottleneck 'o' hipsters
entering their no-embalm
green funerals,
forever Further.

Bishop in Time
algorithm (def- a set of instructions that leads to a predictable result)

by Bryan Merck

At the 5 points fountain, a common pigeon rests on the owl on top of the Goatman’s crozier who is seated on a pedestal and teaching, from a book, an assembly of animals all under the aegis of water falling like rain. Five toads at the points of a pentagram jet the water from their uplifted mouths and pause; water that would escape something succumbs to gravity’s tether and returns, again and again.

Life is riddled with magic, shot through with it. Spirit impinges even into the realm of sleep, a gentle kingdom of sense, nonsense and nightmare. A syncretistic place. Slumber. (Once, on the Argentine grasslands, I saw a great white heron rise on angel wings big enough to fly a man.)

John Galen Holliday MD is alone, today, really alone. No chorus. Alone. His chorus is 6 grungy old men, 2 semi-hot women and Jeanette, a project-dwelling cynic. They have refused to accompany our John for a day or so. He tried to have them exorcized. Truculent Doc and his obstreperous self.

For the bronze-green Goatman, sheened in water, auraed in sunshine…  surely he does not signify for darkness, an encroaching apocalypse, a sinister thing requiring “rapture,” so bad no one wants to be here for it. Conspiracy. He is only a representation of a Goatman. He is impervious to water, weather, malice, love. Some artist forged him. Did he exist before the melting of the metal, the pouring into the mold?

Across town, at the New Crescent Temple, food is set in front of the various statues. Someone wakes them up each morning and bids them goodnight each evening. “The gods and goddesses are all the same god, nameless and without form.”

At St Pachomius Catholic Church, candles burn in front of statues of Joseph and Mary. Joseph’s staff is in bloom, indicating his fitness to be the foster father of God. Mary wears a crown in May.

In the nearby intersection of the 5 said streets, Doc sees the Knights of Dixie Marching Band. It is 1965 out there, just now. A phalanx of mean white guys burdened with various musical instruments seethes under the traffic lights, trying to form in a past day’s traffic.

(I am a gaucho. I ride the pampas and throw a weird lariat.)

Time shifts. Time’s sleight of hand, a magician’s pass. Doc finds himself meeting Wanda Kowalski for the first time. That time expands all around him. It is for Doc. They are hugging. Soul stuff. Doc has never been so sure of anything down to his marrow and the busy depths of his subconscious.  

Something about life begins, again. At the fountain.


The parade was the next Saturday.  The center is not here. The center cannot form, here. This is the past. Exactly 22 years from this particular past day, around the corner, at the New Women’s Clinic, someone will leave the dumpster door open. A crow will peck at a blue baby eye.

Doc’s chorus is of the classical-Greek-play extraction. They once did an amazingly thorough job of ruining his present moment. Catastrophic. Stuff.

Sherriff Buford Ramspiddler, the real life hero of the Talking Tall movies, told the Knights of Dixie to march, today, in 1965. He is lately doing senescence in a vegetative coma on the edge of a white man’s bardo. And so on.

Doc likes his peaceful mind. He is content with it. He is actually considering his chorus to be a bunch of exorcized demons. His head did not spin. He did not vomit and spew. Strange runes did not form on his stomach. He smokes by the fountain. His weight. He feels light, airy.

Time shifts. Time’s sleight of hand, a magician’s pass. Doc finds himself as a newly minted MD. That time expands all around him. It is for Doc. His father is hugging him. Today, he is a grateful survivor of a most impressive education. Healer. A new life begins, again. At the fountain.


Our Goatman never blinks. He cannot move. He is only a sculptor’s whimsy in a fountain in a city in the South of North America. Goofy white men want to lead off a parade set for another day in a long-gone present moment. They are unfortunate earthbound spirits, all the time. And time carries them. As long as they want it to do so. Freight.

The Goatman informs various animals. What? What is he teaching? Frogs, dogs, sheep, rabbits. Time is unstuck, here. Doc is going back and forth through the decades. And he always does this; and he is always doing it; and he will always be doing it.

Doc is unmoored in time. Doc is alone. His mother died in childbirth when he was 7. It was the day, 9/14/1963. Four girls would die in a Sunday School class the next morning.

The Goatman does what bishops do. (I am become the Lord of Time. I expand. I am boundless.
I am the sum of a lot of peoples’ prayers.)

Time shifts. Time’s sleight of hand, a magician’s pass. Doc finds himself joining the Catholic Church on the Easter Vigil, 2007. That time expands all around him. It is for Doc. “The body of Christ. ‘Amen.’ The blood of Christ. ‘Amen.’”  Father Kevin hugs him. Heaven begins, again.  At the fountain.


In his bones, Doc knows he exists in this lively benediction suffused with love, sense, Spirit. This stuff is easy for him because these predominate. Yes. Really. God pours himself into time in a myriad uncountable ways and floods Doc’s heart which is shaped, always shaped, for that.

Saturday, April 25, 2015


by Catherine Weiss

Your foot on ice

At first

The water
Must be cold

Both feet
The lake settles

In protest

A flake falls
From a white sky

Your shuffling steps

Between reeds
Frozen upright

The water
Must be deep

You push forward
To the center

Do you think
Ice won't break?

Cracks form
From your weight

We all fall through.

Thursday, April 23, 2015


by Umm-e-Aiman Vejlani

A new day begins sounding out the bugle
of change that was to rise in the usual rut;
converting methods for altering thoughts
blown like a bubble through a game loop
plastic in aesthetic yet to be bent or tried
there were eager witnesses that watched,
waiting by the sun to rise or set in gamble,
of a beguiling truth over energized fallacies
by posturing sanity in guise of a faith green.
The day revealed a mettle raging loud
to suppress entitlements of a mind free
of ideals, uniting a voice in absent choices
of change: can be a thing true or just fancy
vocabulary accrued by tongues used to
impede or compel the birth of
yet another rebellion.


by Gracie Georgina

It already started: the trickling.   It’s been weeks since I’ve had a chance to change the course of time and pop one in the oven.  Without warning, in the midst of choosing whether I should buy the Drumstick cones or the mint and chip quarter-tub, it came; like a geyser seeking refuge from a hidden mountain on a stuffy summer’s day.  The fountain of youth, constantly reminding me that hot flashes are THAT far away; fifty couldn’t come any quicker. I need a drink.      

Swim With Me

by Monica M. Reed

Our love is the broken sink,
with that dripping water.

When you sing to me,
my body tingles
from the sound
of the droplets against my back
as every word touches it.
You are the only voice that my ears
want to know, they play you
in the background whenever I dream.

I am submerged by how
you climb into my mouth
to tie my tongue in you,
as you roll all about inside.
You seep through my cheeks,
until they turn that shade of cherry red
that whispers words of its own.

When our eyes meet,
I fall back, become the water
the keeps dripping from the sink.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015


by Todd Mercer

The kite was carried away
by updrafts into May afternoon. The string
snaps or slips on every kid, once, at least,
and sails the square of color to where
you can’t spot it. But your brother
who has clearer vision says he sees a speck
that’s smaller than a bird. It’s just below the sun,
lurching leeward into the next township,
bound to flutter-fall, a mess of snapped sticks
and nylon shredding, as the Spring comes on.

Ground Hog Diary

by Al Ortolani                                                                           

Dear Diary…As a rodent,
I am not interested
in sunlight. It bleaches mystery                                                        
from the fencerow, washes out my hope
for surprise. Snow is predicted
tonight, a gray storm crawling
in from the west. Two weeks, six weeks,
what’s the difference?
I will be here with my shadow,
crouched below the roots—
waiting with the wild onion,
the garlic, the tulip
to corkscrew up
from the secret bulb.

Shakespearean Baseball Sonnet #16

by Michael Ceraolo

But Where fore do you not a shiftier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
And fortify your body from decay
With bones more cursed than a rose's crime?
Now stand you on top of the record books,
Though still with several records yet unset.
The virtuous give you dirty looks,
And recoil from your bulked-up counterfeit.
Between the lines you did more than your share
And garnered the praise from keystroke and pen,
By the uses of juices greatly unfair;
No longer esteemed in the eyes of men.
You gave away your self to keep it still;
You should have lived with just your own sweet skill.

Sunday, April 19, 2015


by Bill Jansen

A crocus this morning heard my confession.
The same bird looked at me,
its back to the wind.

Kyrie, eleison

There  was a smudge of ashes on my forehead.
The sky wore gray lingerie,
but who was tempted?

Christe, eleison

Processions waited to start on some hawthorns:
processions of cold blossoms,
ashamed of their beauty.

Kyrie, eleison

Beasts and flowers about to take communion.
I get into line.
But only I am moving.

Christe, eleison

Sheltered from God

by Collin Sullivan

Run my child from the demons inside
They follow the weak
Run as fast
Fast as you can
Powerful child
Diminish the ones inside
From this mahogany heaven
From these silent child
From this stone cathedral
Meet him halfway
Into the world you run
From such demons
Such a safe haven
Masked you from life
From pain
Became a shelter
No more
You have the power


by Marc Carver

I look out of the pub
at the underpass
half of it is in the light
the other is dark.
I look at the darkness
I feel more at home there.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

The Thorn of Neptune

by Christina Murphy

A surfeit of cold waves marks the twilight
with strains of silence and endurance;
random particles beset by harm
move closer to the gritty space between
heaven and the imagination;
the shadows of air conclude with praise—
broken music, pure and wild, and obscure beginnings
near the despair of a ragged moon
The changeling appears as long bones laid out in winter,
the thorn of Neptune rising as an eagle, longing for the shore,
cryptic runes as pure as lilies in the serpent’s embrace;
rivers blossoming on a stem, and far, far away,
the edge of northern skies inexpertly drawn,
the broken images of stars in the dark time,
returning home with mystical emptiness;
here in the moon-shadows by the roadway
nothing from something is revealed—
the constant fool in purgatory wishing the fields
were butterflies in moonlight, not the sad panorama
of dark woods alive with soft mocking


by Marc Carver

A woman came up to me
and sat in the chair opposite.
She smiled at me
and she offered me
half her sandwich.
I think she thought
I must have been some kind of hobo.
Who is to say she is wrong.

The Chosen Span of Lifetimes

by John Pursch

Parquet lore in paranoia screeds
scour fully cyclic swimming ghouls
for sluiced pendulums and
checkerboard turnstile terriers
on pummeled hopscotch rodeo release,
served hypothetically to over-eager
ceiling supper speakers on sabbatical
from supple sheathings of
Pleistocene facemask runes.

Nodding to potential cubbyholes,
shoals of kindly carded plunder age
in stubbly floral primping disarray,
scaring up slumped turpentine
in smoldering seedbeds of
yeast deflection corrugation
seizure’s momentary fog.

From cheese to shining postcard tramps
on flavored idiosyncratic creature compounds
of searing molecules in tidal slats
pawned niftily in daylight trading’s
posture outhouse silence,
high school crushes wax in mudline faults
to geriatric gelatin companionship,
held softly in the chosen span of lifetimes.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

error of your ways

by Linda M. Crate

your eyes
sharp as diamonds
cutting through
you sought to destroy her,
but i stood before you
with the fury of a thousand flames
to burn through your
every winter;
the look of surprise on your face
amused me—
you are the night time fear and the dark morning,
but i am the dawn of aurora
you were the violent of blue but i was the gold
light burning through your dark heart;
and you ran from me in an attempt to preserve
because that's what cowards do
they run from the truth—
you're a man of a thousand faces
transforming like the
most vile villains in anime;
well, come here, little wolf, i am the hero and the
light always chases out the darkness in
the end
let me show you the error of your ways.

Love Is Only What It Is

by Amy Soricelli

It is the spots on the inside of a dark room that resembles love most closely.
Blinking eyelashes full of sleep - you think the proper rub will set you free.
It will not.
You winnow through the stained glass pushed-in chairs and clear your head
from the sand.
Sun escapes its wicked thin line through the bottom shade - and love
is the last form of dancing dust -
mouths hanging open 'in wait'.
Sometimes you cry from the stinging rays of dirt that love dresses in - its wide hat
dipped down covering you from nothing.
Love has eyes on the back of its head.
Its the snowball aimed at your heart unrequited sidewalk meetings with closed hands
its the fear of goodbye dragging its hollow feet across your throat...
tightens up with your name.
Love is the sound before the doorbell - its rush of energy balanced on the fringe - the last sweet
drop of moisture.
Love is the splash of unexpected color in a large film of gray.
Wild galloping horses that stop in your tracks and set the way for you.
The wind in your hair is love.