where does the rain fall when it doesn’t fall here it seems logical this relentless sun should have its opposite somewhere in the southern hemisphere drenching children standing at the edge of marshes that once were playgrounds, fingerling streams falling from hair to feet
here bottomland shimmers tableflat in the valley while the ridges high up beyond the modern mansions of the gentry bake brown then browner each evening and it’s a surprise when the dry clouds come the crack and grate of gigantic knuckles doesn’t split the very ground and scatter it like shrapnel
strike after strike spikes the eye and raises the hackles the stench of disturbed ozone and something dry like dust dug free from an ancient rockface something no living creature could have experienced for millions of years made manifest by the fastest and brightest fault of Earth’s nature
in the morning the city looks up to a cataract sky just the bluest tinge of white and smelling of burning wood with an undertone of petro chemicals’ toxic stink as what men assembled is broken down to ash while still we swelter sweating within another hundred degree day
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Living in a cyst, it would explore the breast. The black ethics goes beyond the bounds of mystique of non-movement. A while away a conflict comes out of the body. Melts into a face. There is no flesh, no skin.
Your fangs open like lips. I am ready for the kiss of death at a war zone, where I was adrift holding the flame, moments stabbed by hot bullets. Black and white words break the embrace, I cannot study the
I accept my flaws I forgive myself I forgive my imperfections both real and percieved I gaze at me with love I appreciate my goodness So what if it is fragmented? I embrace myself and reiterate,’ I am worthy” Thus
The study of history is one of the greatest resources for models and lessons of life. History records a runaway slave who went on to finished college in Ohio. He relocated to Mississippi and became a wealthy planter. He later