Flying Island

The Sincerity of Thirsty Hermits by George Kalamaras Arenas of moray eels access my rich orange complexity. The sincerity of thirsty hermits is an abundant blue flesh. I am no one, if not nothing. Come to my ear and show me how to sign alive. You are more beautiful than a horoscope made of milk. You are lonelier than all the shoes outside a temple in India. My friend K approached his friend J and asked after S , M , and T . I knew the others peripherally, mostly because of my friends L and Z . Now the trains play backgammon on the track to Gabon. We’d all heard of the German professor eaten by cannibals near Brazzaville. If you want to acquire land in unnatural ways, sit in the dark hut of your heart. Ask yourself down through the diamonds and dead bodies of what you can only imagine      is loss. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of poetry and seven chapbooks, including Kingdom of Throat-Stuck Luck , winner of the

Today Is Close to Today by George Kalamaras In those days everything was more beautiful than everything else. We lived like souls soiling themselves into bodies. I once wished my name contained nothing but verbs. Yes, I was young, but no, I could keep still. If you poison me shy, my cluttered ease might salmon-spawn a flexible sacrifice. We defy the full moon like we might the seal skin of a cricket. You may conduct in my mouth any experiment you wish regarding deep sleep. I am perfectly content masticating indirect objects into prepositions. Of. Beyond. For. After. During which. I seem to always start by ending and close by some opening mouth. Sure, those days—long ago, now—almost seem like the old days. Today seems very close to today. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of poetry and seven chapbooks, including Kingdom of Throat-Stuck Luck, winner of the Elixir Press Poetry Prize (2011). He is Professor of English at Ind

For the Not Yet Dead by George Kalamaras The other, the one who does not want to die. I must be absolutely sure of his name for I do not want to call him Nikephoros Gregoras or Georgias . His touch throughout the tiles of the house is that of the newly wed. And this reverence applies even to dust, an old coin, a fallen grain of quinoa that might contain pieces of moon. We are told that somewhere exists a pair of better hands. We don’t believe in hands, or even in the word We . We believe in Epsom salts. A softening from the bath. A woman is scarved in roses, dealing cards. The faces are blank, except the Jack of Pronouns, the Queen of Blades. They’ve finally come to remove the tree from the ground of this word or that. I must memorize its name, swirl of bark, totems in the unwept grain. Call it quinoa. Call it elm. Call its touch. back into my once lovely untouched mouth. Bio: George Kalamaras, Poet Laureate of Indiana, is the author of seven books of p

Smarty you roué by Leslie Lynnton Fuller Smarty Stop telling every woman you know that you love her. It’s like me saying come get the pussy! the ex said it tastes like banana! cupid’s handyman, your week spent on the run you help women with puppies, overheating car, malfunctioning toilet all from the goodness of your heart. my dear at this age plumbing is foreplay. give your ex’s son a tennis lesson, she dreams you’re the new stepdad never mean to hurt anyone. daddy you’re the nightmare on Meridian Street you do have your ways when you kiss me, you massage my Superior Labial Frenulum (under the top lip near the gum, I looked it up) and pretend you’re doing oral please you can’t even kiss without being a tease oh Smarty you roué working that boyish charm into your 90s and in the nursing home staff will search room by room see which bed you’ve landed in. you’ll request a female undertaker one last chance to vamp stone dead with a smile on you

Kiss Me As If It Were the Last Time by Jo Barbara Taylor Though Juliet loved Romeo, her heart's hope vanished with the dew and the dawn lark sang go, go, go hurry before the sky turns blue. Hours and fate waylaid her hallowed vow to remain one of two, ever true.           Hopeless, the brief romance that hovers           over storied, star-crossed lovers. Ilsa dropped into Rick's Café, and Sam sang the love song of Paris again. In one brief moment, she was larked away— you must remember this —along the Seine where she walked with Rick day after day. Ilsa left with longing she could not contain.           Futile, the sad romance that hovers           over tales of star-crossed lovers. In Rome a princess fell in with a hack while on holiday from the duty of a royal daughter. She rode his Vespa, carried clothes in a sack, danced like a filly slipping her halter. When the lark flew at sunrise, fetched her back, she whispered I leave you, though s

Screened In Deck by Kyle D. Craig           —for Lorna Shoemaker Today I find it impossible to deny that cobwebs are spun in the corner, that the latch on the door beckons, that my spirit feels like the garden hose in winter—coiled and closed in a box. I want to reach up and smack the wind chimes that dangle motionless from a hook, feel the onslaught of the sun’s rays peeking through pear trees, dance among the explosion of colors I witness each morning by way of the feeder: the lemon-yellow figure of the finch, the blackbird wings banded in red, or the blue and white body of the immaculate jay. I want to scurry behind the squirrel who walks a tightrope along a telephone wire, or roll my skin in the soil and grass like a lab without a leash. O how I long to be a part of the world! But for now I will remain locked in my screened cage, my pens resting on a small table, steam slowly rising from the rim of my cup, my whiskered friend napping on the warm wood,

Change By Teri Costello It was winter. I wore the uniform, suits and high heels, hairdos and makeup. My charcoal wool suit had a slit up the back of the skirt, just enough. Meeting each week to strategize with the boys at the downtown office, I made recommendations to improve their accounting. They were my age - early forties. Young Turks. The conversations were smart. I was hitting my professional stride. I knew what I was about, what they were about, what they needed, and how to deliver. Good times. In a singular moment, walking down the hall to one of those meetings (it was a Wednesday), my world changed forever. I felt the earth move under my feet, like the song said - but not in a good way. As I entered the conference room, all heads turned, all eyes were on me, mesmerized by the worms slithering out of my nose, mouth, and ears, the flames shooting out of the top of my head. I started to speak and couldn’t put two thoughts together. Most of my vocabulary was gon

Early Dreams of Telepathy by Stacy Post When you were eight-track I was vinyl When I was CD you were cassette strung out on a mixed tape I couldn’t live without but now we’re both MP3 you say we can share a cloud instead of direct downloads— out-formatting me once again It doesn’t matter really how we share the music the songs of our connection will outlast us, will synchronize in the ethereal our early dreams of telepathy will come true Bio: Stacy Post, a native Hoosier and librarian, resides in the heartland with her adorable family. A Pushcart Prize nominee for short fiction, her stories have appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, moonShine review, Fiction365, One Forty Fiction, Referential Magazine, Rose & Thorn Journal, WOW! Women on Writing and Every Day Fiction. Her poetry has appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Sleet Magazine, Kansas City Voices, 4 & 20 Poetry, Pearl, Iodine Poetry Journal, Referential Magazine, Every Day Poets and Skylark.