Love On The Road We hug and kiss in the fast food parking area From their SUV my family waves farewell to me We are on the same road until they slow to approach their exit For an instant we are side by side Everyone turns in their seats and throws me an extra kiss They look like any other family Except they’re my family # # # Crossing Over My daughter runs, hops, and skips To the curb’s edge For her ritual rite of passage I assure her it’s safe to cross She runs, hops and skips To the opposite curb “I’m a grown up now,” she yells I yelled back, “Don’t grow up yet. You have time.” …
“Counseling” — A Short Story by Yash Seyedbagheri
Go see a counselor, classmates proclaim, when I ask for company. Friendship. “It’ll help,” the ringleader of the pro-counseling legion proclaims. Her name is Betty Brown, she wears huge glasses, and I suspect she has a few fucking issues of her own. “It’ll help you get balance. You’ll find peace in your life, Nick.” Balance? What the fuck? I want a friend. I want a fucking friend. As if counselors can compensate for the vast spaces between me and people, the empty rooms at night, the excessive time spent with Netflix and its soothing red glow. Can counselors make people respond to the emails I send? Are they punishing me for bluntness unmasked? Counselors are just as fucked up, truth be told. They’re people who disguise sorrows beneath diagnoses and cold recommendations. Take this pill. Get more exercise. I’d like a friend. That’s what every email I send…
“Frank Olson” — The Poetry of Charles Rammelkamp
Frank Olson “Webber,” my editor barked when I walked into the office that day just after Thanksgiving, 1953. “I want you to look into this story about the CIA guy who jumped out of the tenth floor window at the Statler, on Seventh Avenue. Why did he do it? Could he have been he pushed?” My beat? CIA, MK-ULTRA, “mind-control” drugs. Brainwashing. I knew about Frank Olson already; worked at Camp Dietrich in Maryland, Special Ops, an aerosol expert, his specialty “airborne distribution of biological germs.” Worked on Operation Sea Spray a couple year earlier, where they released a dust that floated like anthrax, near San Francisco. At Dietrich, he directed experiments that involved gassing and poisoning lab animals. “I’ll look right into it, sir,” already booking a flight and hotel in my mind, thinking,…
“On Waking Up and Strong Desires,” by Kelly Burke
It is Saturday morning. I woke up with a strong desire to get a haircut. On my laptop I look up local salons to read reviews and compare ratings. I find one that looks promising. It has 4.9 stars and a recent client named Beatrice wrote that the stylists are warm and helpful people. Everything on the website is written in a romantic cursive font like a wedding invitation. I book an appointment for noon. I type out my name, email address, and phone number. Before submitting the form, it asks me to select the length of my hair, long or short. There is no option for medium or other. It makes me wince a bit. Then I begin contemplating the most accurate way to describe the length of my hair. I think about how…
“Leap of Faith” — An Ekphrasis Poem by Mark Blickley
Image by Mark Blickley Leap of Faith I’m a dead frog and I don’t say this with any pity or understanding or shame, it’s just an observation that people seem to like us, like us a bit too much because they like to push hooks through our jaws and cast us out to sea, as well as amputate us for fine dining and draw us as a cartoon shuffling cigar smoking smart ass, and they like to blame us when they choke on the phlegm in their throats, and they swear that some of us give them hideous skin infections while the evil ones enjoy tossing us into their steamy potions as the younger ones imitate us with a game of leaps and crashes, perhaps because we abandon our young and we larger ones like to…