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Showing posts from August, 2017

Judgment, a poem by Dheepa Maturi

Judgment by Dheepa Maturi I know the angle from which to pull the threads from my skin. I know how to twist and anchor them on shards of my bone, how to unwind my organs and entrails — and thoughts — how to weave them all into jagged tapestry. It takes practice, but I've been doing this for awhile. You do not notice as I spiral my arms and fling the cloth. You do not notice as it descends over your face, torso, feet. At last, I can comprehend you through the underbelly of my organs, through the kinks in my dermis. You aren't kind, and you don't love me. Your words stretch and distort around the edges. I don't feel your pulse or your breath, but I see you. About the poet: “I am the director of a nonprofit fund in Indianapolis and a graduate of the University of Michigan (A.B. English Literature) and the University of Chicago. My poems and essays have appeared in Every Day Poems, Tweetspeak Poetry, A Tea

Truck Stop Dog, a poem by Thomas Alan Orr

Truck Stop Dog by Thomas Alan Orr Wingo lounges in the grass under tulip trees near the Ready Go truck stop along the interstate near Indianapolis. He’s headed for Denver (only he knows why), waiting on his ride. Here comes Toledo Jake in his big Kenworth T660. Wingo jumps aboard, head out the window, tongue lolling, wind tearing at his ears, Jake shifting into high gear, wheels whining. The open road is all that matters. West of Abilene, Jake is on the radio checking highway patrol with a tanker out of Bismarck, a flatbed out of Tulsa. Wingo slurps Cheerios and milk in the sleeping berth, content. They cruise into the pit stop near mile marker two-sixty-five and Wingo is out the door. On the knoll, a pretty cur wags her tail and off they go, Denver deferred, Jake shouting, “ Adios, hermano!” He sighs and gazes wistfully after Wingo, chasing love on the open road. About the poet: Orr's most recent col

Ten Krugerrands: Creative Nonfiction by Charlie Sutphin

  Ten Krugerrands :  A Parable of Want by Charlie Sutphin Years ago, when the price of gold was low, I purchased ten Krugerrands at a coin store. I placed the Krugerrands in holders and planted them around the world like a modern-day Johnny Appleseed. I felt better knowing the coins were there should I have the need. If times were dark and I stumbled into that part of the world again, my gold was safe. I know, I know: Don’t say it. Still, it’s what I did. The first planting occurred outside the city of Prague in the town of Terezin. With a group of tourists I visited the concentration camp of Theresienstadt before driving through the ghetto. I finished the trip at a memorial to the victims of WW II and was provided 20 minutes to examine (and photograph) the crematorium. Afterwards, the group strolled over the corpses interred beneath the ground. I excused myself and walked to the farthest corner of the property. Taking a trowel from inside my backpack, I dug a hole

Goodwill, a poem by Marjie Giffin

Goodwill is scattered all over the canopied bay among the trampled cardboard boxes and crumpled bags and soggy sheets. A young, moody-faced teen languishes on the curb, nodding when spoken to but not answering my motion for help. Figures, I think, cursing lazy youth, as I trot to the back of my car and heave up the hatch and begin loading my arms with all the added goodwill I can muster: baubles that came from Macy’s, canisters that once spilled out Gold Medal flour, baby dolls that were kissed and held. No time for sentiment; tepid rain drips from the awning and pools on cracked, uneven cement. The scent of moldy cast-offs mixes with the mustiness of tentative, springtime rain. A sack of Christmas candies catches the eye of the non-attentive teen; May I? his eyes seem to ask. I toss it to him like a bridal bouquet. In the rearview mirror as I pull away, I see him grinning as he digs in the crinkly silver sack. — Marjie Giffin

In Red's Juke Joint in Clarksdale, a poem by Norbert Krapf

In Red's Juke Joint in Clarksdale by Norbert Krapf In Red's juke joint they play the blues after the sun don't shine. The notes they play are blue but the ones plugged in on the wall glow red and the beer bottles Red sells from behind the bar are cold and brown. A small river flows behind the old building and in front stands a cut barrel in which meat smokes. Between the river and the smoke the blues cook all night long and the beer flows as slow and long as the river don't stop. People come to sit on bar stools and chairs and listen to the blues nights the way they come to sit in pews in church Sunday mornings and in Red's and in the church the music is about the same though some people say the music in the juke joint comes from the Devil and in church it comes from God. My ears tell me the music in Red's is the call and response of the Devil and God talkin' together and the people listen the same whe