Some acts can be argued
either courage or cowardice,
but no fallen tree can be accused

of avarice. Whether splintered stumps
or smoothed by saws,
the crowns of gold or thorns

which write or dictate laws
are beheaded by poverty or power
from sweetening envies

or their own sours.
It makes no sense
to endow with intent

lives within it is latent;
when it thinks it’s found a home
its home thinks different.

Featured art: Point of Departure,
oil and Indian Ink on Canvas, 330cm x 220cm, by Ricky Romain.

Image used with permission from the artist.

In attempt to lock together
    eventual superfluity,
cloned stones accept
    patterned obeisance
and are unseen where,
    to uncharitable eyes,
they sacrifice
    the confident weave
of interdependence,
    slouching to preferred disorder.


Featured art: “Heart Rot” by Amy Casey,
ink and acrylic on paper, 22 x 15″.

Image used with permission from the artist.


Leathern earth stretched too taut,
cadaver choked in its tolerated corset
itches abroad as it is annoyed,
abandoned, tossed on a dizzying deathbed.

With diamond thoughts mined
and desolate circuits lead-walled,
it clings with steadfast fist
to one last thing unlost.

Stars turn dark backs
on the sphere’s passive scars
frozen in cleaving screams of fissure,
openings portent for demons’ departure.

For calamitous experiments lent,
before disowned and turned gaunt,
it bowed toward an ill-advised
originator, now blackened dead;

an innocent cherub, for thrill of sin,
with good invention rebegan
the nth indifferent death of color
by peeking over her celestial shoulder.

Featured image: “Fireplace” by Dmitriy Bessonov,
digital painting.

Image used with artist’s permission


             Blister grids braid imploring palms
             as alleged wickeds spit in their felonious skillet.
   Reptiles dance to cubicle monks, their square fugues, rejected demigods,
   grinding down harpsichord strings in cloister.
               Grandma’s here.
               You thought you saw drifting screens, silk veils,
black-licorice lace clouds perimeter-pacing. Mistaken, you watch amphibian flames
stick sugary paws up rusty iron walls with superstitious calm.

     Contemplative moments, salt and pepper debates,
     leave messes like romance’s merciless side effects.
      No matter which brand of battery you’re eating,
      all schools lacking thought taste similar:
          resistant curds purging upward,
          beasts hiding in a forest of thimbles.