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On ButterfliesI know a little something
about butterfly wings-- how they can stare at you & fly at the same time. This bathtub, a death bed; my back and my feet frozen like cold sausages. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Urban DiaryWords by Raymond Greiner Image by Allen Forrest QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Previously published in Indiana Voice Journal I awaken to the hydraulic whine of a trash truck. Nearby a massive waste incinerator emits a polluting stench mixing with incessant rumble of traffic.
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Only MeIs it only me or do you feel it, too?
Does your heart skip a beat when I smile at you? Can a loving word I say or appreciation true Bring a smile to your lips when you are blue? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Like Breath, Like AirOh, for fuck's sake
when I die, don’t tell them I was full of life say instead, that I was air and that I swept through the valley of the damned in the deadest places of the earth like a hurricane or a soft breeze; the details are not important. If you are feeling generous, say instead that I was wise, but a half-prophet at best who wandered, stiff-kneed, under southern Suns through bruised and ebbing cities which are just another kind of wasteland. Remind them of who I was: listless wretched spoiling like the hot weight of the un-wind in the Negev where I once drank cool, sweet water in a Bedouin tent under the cruel eye of a kind Canaanite King whose gentle, clay hands resemble my father's. Tell them that I wanted to die, even when I didn’t because sometimes I did. And then forgive me this last weakness wrought of restless living; but to rest somewhere the endless soul of a dumb bone graveyard - what bliss! To slide un-designed through ancient terracotta fingers with such easy softness, tiny callous particles warping into glassy waves beneath the shoreline a thousand little certainties of sand like breath like air. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Crying ShameWe never knew they was coming until it was too late.
1982 was when they came. We had always just minded our business quietly and contently. Every month or so a new tenant would join us. Not near me, ‘course. Robert Dalton was to my left and little Timmy Johnson on my right. He was only thirteen-years-old. Crying shame, I always say. But it happens and there is nothing we could do about it. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Sound Like the Earth, The Train, and Winter PeachA Sound Like the Earth
The train whistle broke the fog. Her brother would not be among the soldiers coming home tonight, patched and worn thin like daddy’s overalls at the end of summer. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
An Indian DreamWords by Hardeep Sabharwal QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Originally published on Writer's Cafe. When everything is going to end,
I will not collect the remains. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Moon View (Cosmic Tears)earth-struck moon
lonely earth mate silent patient timeless admirer The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wasps, Autumn Jackdaws, and Tenant Before UsWasps
From the youthful days of high summer. Where drinking could go on all day. The dancing along a street or path, nipping into flower heads, the locals. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fly! Fly!The child I was. Peas rolling off my plate. Crusts cut off white sliced. Stopped eating peas and the crusts on edge any sandwiches. Spat sog on plate bread crusts caught in mouth half way dangled. Dribbled beans peas mushed heaved almost.
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