Brett Warren

If I’m Lucky

the worst thing about dying will be
how I won’t be able to write about it

what I thought & felt
what I saw & smelt

the oh fuck! or what the hell…? of it
or the last contented breath of it

the regret or peace or relief of it
the whack or languid pull of it

the radiance or dimming or fire of it
the antiseptic or floral rot of it

the simple unraveling
or sensory overload of it—

how I won’t reveal if a colossal face
peers down through a hole in the clouds

if a massive hand scoops me up
like a cosmic Ferris wheel

& sets me back down as Cleopatra
or a dung beetle or crushes me

in a divine comment on insignificance.


Brett Warren shares her late mother’s utter disinterest in the idea of an afterlife and might prefer reincarnation, though perhaps not as a human.


 

 

Brett Warren

Mooncake in a Chinese Bakery

You came for this round wonder
on a paper plate

& found windows steamed
to invisibility

tables & chairs so close
you have to go sideways

to get the one seat left
at a rickety table by the wall

the bell on the door
an insistent message

from the world of the sidewalk
where gutters gutter over

& rain rains down
which you blissfully ignore

because you want to drown
in the refuge of voices

not one word you understand

not one face you know

not a soul who knows you

this happiness a measure
for all happiness

a lotus mooncake
the least of it.


Brett Warren shares her late mother’s utter disinterest in the idea of an afterlife and might prefer reincarnation, though perhaps not as a human.


 

 

Tara Willoughby

Terraforming

These days the clouds move
faster each time I look at them,
and I imagine great great
grand nieces sitting
under a whirling future sky,
giggling at their dusty ancestor
and her unrealistic sketches of
floating rotund sheep.


Sometimes, Tara Willoughby writes poems.


 

 

Mike Dillon

Third Grade

When I realized the question on the chalkboard
was not a question because our teacher
already knew the answer
I felt something inside me
sink one floor.


Mike Dillon, who lives northwest of Seattle on Puget Sound, likes brief, cold-water swims and short conversations.


 

 

Mike Dillon

And Now

I watch my father
bent with age
step around
rather than over
a shattered oar
left by last night’s tide.


Mike Dillon, who lives northwest of Seattle on Puget Sound, likes brief, cold-water swims and short conversations.


 

 

George Salamon

America’s Forgotten

Tramps and drifters,
boozers and junkies,
loafers and losers,
born fatherless or
born homeless,
frightened and
despairing, turned
down by the world,
I recognize you,
there must be some
of your blood in me.


George Salamon was a refugee decades ago, but he can still feel what it was like to exist outside…of everything.


 

 

D.W. Golden

Note

Nearing midnight
and I shouldn’t write
again so soon,
but there’s a full moon,
and the stars,
well, the stars
speak for themselves,
for us.


D. W. Golden is still on a singular quest towards attaining the ever elusive state of being in all things as much as possible simply simpler.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Confession

I would confess to you here
by this dark pond,

tell you everything
that happened when I fell to earth,

carve your name on my wrist,
request your blessing on my little wound.


Steve Klepetar is grateful for the Ambidextrous Bloodhound Dental Plan.