For July, we have new flash fiction from Rebecca Lee, and new poetry from Joseph Robert.
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Having finished And the Show Went On, by Alan Riding, I was struck by several things. First of all, the obvious. When your nation is overrun by a foreign power, and you’ve lost control of your own country, do you continue to try to publish your work, paint your paintings, make movies, put on plays, give concerts, etc. etc.? Or do you go into hiding, withhold your art from the public? Or just leave the country? Are you really an artist if you don’t make art? . . . Read more. “The Artist’s Choice”
Extemporaneous doesn’t fit. If he were truly Extemporaneous, his syllables wouldn’t stop up the sentence. Something short like ‘cut’ or ‘pretty’ might be in style, but four syllables is not off the cuff. Extemporaneous peers quizzically over small bits of party food.
The party-goer closest, hunches – tiny teeth exposed. He warns off all other Possibilities of trying to snack. The caviar is barricaded by Verboten Love. With swimmable sweaters still tight, Verboten sits in front, blocking any hope of Extemporaneous eating.
Extemporaneous sadly weighs the heavy consequences of knowing forbidden friends. What would a party be without them?
Not a Poem in Me, But I am not lost for images or cleverer phrasings, Simply lost, Like a half-made analogy, like forgetting how to wink, So, blinking, trying to will how to know how to whistle, My lips round and, I feel I believe there are man-eaters around, I strain, listening for huskie barks, Trying to tune out the police force’s ambulatory sirens, Rather those dogs, cold and white, barking, I picture a mugger, who pictures me, Hearing a polar bear pad over tall drifts, somehow. Who is stalking us both? Then thirst makes me contemplate licking this igloo’s roof, Freezing my tongue to its roundness, Grasping inheritable spear, I glow in oily lamp light, Whilst your self-expression takes a back seat, Content with shouting directions at the jagged dreams, Of ragged sleep, who drive in shifts down mad highways, ut that’s hours off still yet, and yet, I remember to breathe, When I catch myself holding my breath, Playing at my casted role of being that ascetic mystic, Caught with crumb grubby fingers, At bottom of that annihilating cookie jar, Why? . . . Read more. “Joseph Robert: The Poem Inside”