February 25, 2020

“Broken Hearts & Dead Flowers,” by Michael Summerleigh

BROKEN HEARTS & DEAD FLOWERS (February 1970 – upstate New York) Josh stepped out into the beginning of the day, heard the steel door slam behind him as he pitched the black garbage bag into the dumpster. He checked the door once to make sure it had locked, buttoned his denim jacket up around the paper sack of unsold apple crisps and burgers, jammed his hands down into the pockets of his jeans. It had been a slow shift, some heavy wind and a couple of inches of snow discouraging the stoners from boarding the Midnight Munchie train that usually kept the Jack-in-the-Box busy through the night. He’d sent Kyle and Donnie home at two, started shutting everything down around three-thirty. . .picking up wax paper burger wraps and empty Zig Zag sleeves in the small…

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February 23, 2020

“Ethereal Tryst,” Poems by Horacio Chavez

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Ethereal Tryst Meet me where the pink hued clouds entwine with infinity So, will we conjoin in our appointed waltz Upon that coral floor together in unity To enjoy what is and bemoan that which remains Our fate to hunger… Our union asunder Our feet skillful We dance the dance fate has called out Without malice though willful We are without doubt For all but our destiny… We step carefully Accepting that which is within our grasp In lieu of that wish that eludes Satisfied with the fortuitous clasp Of mind and spirit to conclude The interlude… Of our love subdued Perhaps fate will grant our desire Beyond the tryst that both plagues And blesses the fire Kindled by the wave That we may forever crave… Our ethereal tryst ** In Love With a Poet So you’re in love with a poet you say …

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February 20, 2020

“Dimples of Haiti,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

DIMPLES OF HAITI Haiti, stink of sweat smelling millet slavery and the scent of blood revolutions. Slapped in the face with sanctions mud by hands under the influence of imperialistic alcohol. A super-concoction of propaganda maize porridge and Media yeast. Waterfalls of anger washing away your freedom dimples Handmaidens and mental epileptic waiters serving political syphilis in ideological cafes Children smelling stale ideological urine and dirt diplomatic cocaine Identities condomised with donor culture and sexual myopia Baboons eating colors of your flag, munching apples of your freedom Tongues kissing bottom streams of the state under the veil of democracy gospel Haiti, my pen is a weapon of mass instruction, I see the spreading yellow York of the sun, gently falling over the darkness of your skin, yawning off the old skin of dust, Regaining the lost richness of your dimples. ** DAWN OF…

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February 16, 2020

“After Thucydides,” Poems by Bruce Robinson

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

After Thucydides Read to you my silent poem, how does it go? Goes without saying, va sans dire. And then someone spoke and there was the largest crowd in history, and a luminous array of tariffs made us rich again which after all was our pre-existential condition before the construction of our glorious, seguro- will-cover-it wall, and we learned that however true it may…be.. that truth is something intermittent, which is how some histories are written. ** It’s Your Past Catching Up with You and then your past catches up with you, or tries to, and then your past tries to oscillate your future, or makes a very good effort to be closer than it appears and then you’re past all caring, all over-canvassed tenses meet each other mid-stream, toll…

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February 11, 2020

“Designer Baby,” by Joann Mead

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Designer Baby: Underlying Crimes Chapter 1 My Mai “You are mine. You are my Mai.” He chuckled. “Mai, Mai.” Repeating over and over, he laughed at his alliteration as he clapped his short, thick hands in time with his rhythmic chant. “Only tonight. No rough stuff. Just what we agreed, Vlad. Promise?” For Mai Tran, this business has rules that must be followed. Her patrons were usually compliant. Most were lonely businessmen with too much money and time on their hands. Most had pedestrian tastes. But this client was not typical—more brutish and less refined than the Scandinavian men, and with none of the sophistication of western Europeans. Mai keenly observed the differences in her clients. She was a quick study. This patron was decidedly coarse with his disheveled hair and beefy body. She comically thought the size of…

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“Broken Hearts & Dead Flowers,” by Michael Summerleigh

“Ethereal Tryst,” Poems by Horacio Chavez

“Dimples of Haiti,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

“After Thucydides,” Poems by Bruce Robinson

“Designer Baby,” by Joann Mead

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