INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
Tolu Ogunlesi
Paul B. Roth
Gerald Clark
Dike Okoro
Jerry Blanton
Felino Soriano
Joanie Freeman
Steve Barfield
Shuta Crum
Running Cub
Odimegwn Onwumere
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Fred Wolven
Nona Giorgadze
Bobby Steve Baker
Brandon S. Ray
satnrose
Serena Trome
Paul Handley
Kanev Peycho
George Moore
R. Jay Slais
Carol Smallwood
My intuition,
My impulse to dig in the dirt
Bare hands instructing the motion
Of the fertile land as though
Opening a door with no knob
A window with no home
The dirt glitters only to beg
For direction but stays
motionless
FIELD SONG
There are no fields but your own
The best is out of reach to those
That chooses to trespass
The night's veins are thin
The rain falls leveling the
Land and its products
But morning passes, and the
Day realizes the night's
Transgressions
A SHORT STORY
A large pile of ashes is cupped in his hands.
The town is still sleepy.
It is wrapped in counting trees that
lead to sleep.
When the town woke up, there were no trees
only ash cupped in a man's hand.
Brandon S. Roy, Carencro, Louisiana