In the darkness he sticks to his bones; unsure why. He is a shrug of stillness. After years soaking in the shop he did try, but the hair in the soup was too much; the ptomaine that stank in the unspigotted vim. He did try, but the trial to jabber and cry, smile, with the rest of us was nothing to bear; so…
Why I Do It by The Punslinger
Poems are as simple and infinite as similes. Image by: Pannini
How to See the Moon and Believe it is You by Cassidy J. Hodges
Six shooters of whiskey in bullet shaped glasses tumbling over trembling knees under desks. Finding your face in between toes pointing east rubbing against each other in shoes, sole worn The sun doesn’t rise here just sets and sets and sets and my name only a second hand way to find north. Image: Public Domain still from “Voyage dans la…
Little, Lit and Left by Cassidy J. Hodges
Walk out and look over the lost moon, the caustic light dim in the murk. A river deep in the burned morning countryside, smoke standing at the edge of winter. Rough boys open up the ground to light for warmth Like great men have no evil, only the burning twist. Image by: H. Koppdelaney
Missing you is like Illinois by Cassidy J. Hodges
My pen stumbles through Illinois, joking with bus stops about coming home. Taking photographs of roadsides (waiting for our skin to appear there). Touching the shifter, tentative as the flat of some field rips holes in the calendars of our together. The ink line of the highway pushing past every smoke-filled morning as Chicago Sticks up its middle finger and chokes on the horizon. The…