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<\/a>Mr. Bukowski – Dirty Old Man by Laura Dumm<\/p><\/div>\n
Gullible’s travels<\/strong><\/p>\n Out in the middle of the garlic fields The hotels were empty and the streets Funicular trains ran all night long but Down in the valley the people carried – Robert Haycock<\/p>\n bree<\/p><\/div>\n Col legno<\/strong><\/p>\n the little junco, and all its graynesses, come in, the catbirds, pallies! i have no occupation. by what method bree<\/p>\n MJ Arcangelini<\/p><\/div>\n Generosity<\/strong><\/p>\n Spring’s watercolor renewal: The old king is here – Lady<\/p>\n Status Report 249<\/strong><\/p>\n Got a two-track brain train One track weighs whoa, Second says so? – Smith<\/p>\n Tim Joyce<\/p><\/div>\n I am quiet the come around the sacred shhh – Marc Mannheimer<\/p>\n Chris Cipriani<\/p><\/div>\n A dream of gentle warmth – Vidrick<\/p>\n Night Watch by Smith<\/p><\/div>\n Status Report 244<\/strong><\/p>\n New day sun rises unseen There is flower. – Smith<\/p>\n John Swain<\/p><\/div>\n Ruminations on a Golden Eye<\/strong><\/p>\n 1. Great horned owl 2. 3. 4. – Christina M. Brooks<\/p>\n Tim Green<\/p><\/div>\n A Page From This Day<\/strong><\/p>\n I ask the towhead boy Later that day, I watch old man Jerry Jerry slumps over his beer. – Maj Ragain<\/p>\n
\nBoutiques had sprung up filled with
\nThings nobody could afford to buy
\nI swear there was never a harbor
\nHere when I was a child<\/p>\n
\nNone of the clocks could agree on
\nJust what time it was or why
\nThe moonshine flowed free
\nAnd I was in trouble<\/p>\n
\nThey made you seasick so walking
\nWe found a shortcut over the hills
\nToo many times we came upon
\nInvisible cities in the dark<\/p>\n
\nWater to the trees in cupped hands
\nWe tried to make a home there
\nThe abalones we planted
\nNever seemed to thrive<\/p>\n<\/a>
\npink beak almost like flesh we protect
\nbetween what prompts an opening.<\/p>\n
\nstroyers of dignified gait- how welcome is
\nthe blue you sometimes give off under
\nbranch ceiling, as i pause about the lake.<\/p>\n
\nam i halted except these dainty leaves
\ncoming from the blood root in legion-
\nor, by the score, old hickories, one of
\nthem hiding a wee wren imitating
\na cellist who uses the wood, rather
\nthan the hair of the bow, to achieve
\nher harmonics.<\/p>\n<\/a>
\nwood buds, floods green
\nover winter’s pencil palimpsest
\nwhich is fading, fading, fading,
\ngone<\/p>\n
\nagain<\/p>\n
\na-run-a-way going<\/p>\n
\nare we ever weak, breakable<\/p>\n
\nbroke before, can fix again<\/p>\n
\nin library silence
\nsurrounded by magazines
\n— Paleo, Real Simple
\nQuilter’s Newsletter…<\/p>\n
\nthe least sound
\nthe zipper of his laptop case
\nthe clonk of her high heels
\nacross the tile floor<\/p>\n
\nthe music of air
\nrebounding off the walls
\nand the ceiling, singing
\ninbreath, out<\/p>\n<\/a>
\nhas entered the cushions
\nof my soul a barefoot woman
\ntraveling across a wooden
\nocean holding a basket of
\nbread and tender kisses
\nsinging in the sweetness
\nof her arms and headed
\nfor the saddened market
\nof my spring time heart.<\/p>\n
\nabove slate grey sky thick in clouds
\nstained with past promise
\nframing new beginning of old game
\nof survive, thrive, strive.<\/p>\n
\nThere is worm.
\nThere is new hour
\nalready wearing yesterday’s squirm.<\/p>\n
\nA ring-eyed golden stare
\nlooking into a knothole
\nforty feet up an ancient
\nblack oak.<\/p>\n
\neyes her prey moments
\nbefore life ends.<\/p>\n
\nOrion\u2019s spur cradles us
\nlike a young child
\nyellow dwarf
\nneither large nor bright
\nOur Sun, welcoming
\nand small
\nglowing speck
\nin a greater mystery.<\/p>\n
\nLens peering closer
\nnarrowly focused
\non a moment of turning.
\nSperm meets egg
\njellied life,
\nfluid, changing.<\/p>\n
\nWhat are you?
\nDug from an ancient ruin.
\nCarefully selected for the
\nlong voyage.
\nAlien life, asleep in the sand
\nWhat do you see
\nnow that you are awakened?<\/p>\n<\/a>
\nfishing below the Rock Creek waterfall,
\nthe deep pool, Have you caught anything?
\nNaw, an hour ago, people were swimming here.
\nUp the creek, a deputy dawg pulls off
\na dozen pistol rounds, crack, crack, crack.
\nThe cane pole boy hooks a big sunfish
\nand holds it up to me, grinning, a solar kite
\nfilling the sky.<\/p>\n
\ndrag himself into Ciccone\u2019s bar,
\nwash rag arm, scuffle shoe.
\nHe hangs his stoke cane and climbs his stool.
\nRoberta has already poured his beer,
\ncaught in the June afternoon yellowfin light
\nstreaming though the open door.<\/p>\n
\nUnder his hat, he is swimming buck naked
\nin a spring fed river with a woman
\nwho splashes away, laughing, otter quick.<\/p>\n