My Muse Sings Only Country
My muse sings only country— An eighteen wheeler siren Crying, dying, going somewhere With a juke-box beat. I am road-house Homer; Honky-Tonk laureate, Truck-stop troubadour Singing to steel-guitar wails And humming tires. I am highway minstrel Teasing tears from good ole boys When waitresses are Didos In a cross-country Odyssey My muse sings only...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of Sept. 14 (Personal History)
You ever hear the expression “the personal is political”? Well, oftentimes, so is our personal history, with our emotions interlocking with the way we view the past. Today’s contributors take us on a journey into yesteryear. “Imagine That,” a poem by Bruce McRae, contemplates different ways of viewing the past. “What You Can’t See,” a flash fiction piece by Louis M. Abbey, centers on a haunting memory of war. “Moira,” a flash fiction piece by Lorna Wood, reflects on an unforgettable grad-school...
Read MoreRepossessed
A doll’s house on the street of my mind, its tiny curtains drawn, the rooms dark and dusty, the finger-sized furniture tipped over after what appears to have been a drunken rage. And with no sign of its glassine-eyed occupants, the little back door kicked in, or nudged by a mouse, the fourth wall missing in this theatre-of-play, revealing a family’s unspeakable secrets. And in its homey plastic kitchen, a wisp of smoke. A fire coming. A cleansing...
Read MoreMoira
Moira Leibowitz was a force of nature, all long curly hair, shawls and scarves, and the scent of patchouli. We were organizing the grad students that winter — protesting, wearing buttons, threatening to strike. Moira brought her guitar and played songs like “We Shall Overcome” on it, wearing her grey gloves with the fingers cut off, the same gloves that handed out coffee to everyone on the especially cold days. I remember her voice was low and warm, but it carried. We were too young to realize nothing would come of it all. Sure, they would show up and drink coffee and sing, but putting...
Read MoreWhat You Can’t See
South Vietnam — 1968 Clack went the shutter on my camera. The two South Vietnamese soldiers looked at one another, nodded and stepped back from the edge of the bomb crater. One pulled a cigarette from a pack in his breast pocket and lighted it. He offered one to his comrade, who shook his head and turned to look across the rice paddies toward the high ground, where a network of trees drew clean, black lines against the yellow sky. A hand squeezed my shoulder, and I looked up. The company commander tapped my camera with his finger and whispered, “Take any...
Read MoreImagine That
I’ve imagined all this, one reality as real as any other. I’ve been strolling in the mind’s bestiary, thoughtfulness sawing its green lumber. I’m on a newly discovered planet. I’m a simile or silly allegory. A gargoyle in a cathedral. A fist through a pane of tinted glass. Already I’ve died a thousand nights and have crowned myself king of the gnats. In my mind is a creamer of magical water. I’ve put myself before all others. Why write of the real world, its stems and stoves and fishes? When I can live on the sun instead and carry cities in my bloodstream. I can...
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