Mike Zone writes

Nothing like the sun 

Men without women
red bench-drunken sex on the floor
picking tomatoes
with migrants in the sun
daylight unhindered
in the glory of afternoon toil
observing nature sound
no sensual trickster pleasure
but the sight of imaginary thee
free to be
but a humble friend
of the earth

Mike Zone writes

Masks in the streets 

Masks in the streets
the lions don’t roar
there’s masks in the streets
spilling left over contagion
from the sheets
masks in the streets
from hot summer night excursions
pornographic pandemic rendezvous
where the infected
slip and slide
in one another
thrusting towers
in secret wonderment
masks in the streets
same as it ever was
only in your face
behind dwindling daylight veils
how morning dew resembles
viral fever sweat
masks in the streets
death-rattle blues
let’s disregard folly and forget social contract lies
let’s commit our crimes at sunrise
high noon armed robbery at the food bank
dressed as Dali
masks in the streets
we’ll shoot fake healthcare workers in cold blood
spreading whatever it is around
in protest for their haircuts
and yelling at waitstaff
masks in the streets.
 
-- Jeff Kowalsky

Mike Zone writes

Advice from La Mancha 

No one knows you
when you’re down
Don’t step into the ring
unless
you know
you’re going to win
God is the only true judge
Death comes
to rich and poor
apartment, mansion…
we’re not promised
another day
But I say to you
everyone struggles
From the goodest hearts
comes the evilest intent
be kind
(NONE OF IT HELPED) 

Don Quixote --  Aurelio Teno

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

Lace and Mango Pickle

I walk about 
With my vulnerability
Barely covered in tentative dresses
The tremble of thick and soft but firm pink lips
Inviting remark upon its contrast
With the somewhat exaggerated horn rims
Of my all but cosmetic glasses

Perhaps you would hand me a glass of still water
At room temperature, and a cherry or a plum
I have reluctantly said no to lavender
But a pale, very pale, saffron may just about disturb the universe
To the very tiny extent that I want it to shift
To make room for my voice of sweet reasonableness
And endearing whimsy
Before it gets comfortable again
Pleased with me for making it ever so comfortably uncomfortable
That it will invite me again and again
To beautiful silky places
With delicately delicious food
And scented listeners
I must to Bruges next
For the lace
Where I shall ever so outrageously
Mention Mango pickle
In turmeric and mustard oil
Redolent of asofeotida

Robin Wyatt Dunn writes

take the tired off of the barge
and bury the night
winter the sky and try the spark
under your lips
who or where
got slipped 


stars and carriage in the bones
endure the anvil spread out over our heads
inside the silence, I am praying to a private god
of my feet

Robin Wyatt Dunn writes

Take my hand over the leavings
The stamps and stumps
The mass of the stars and lamps
Shaking edges of the air

The name of the auburn leaves
Like my face
Like your arm
Like the sea
Like the color of the sky
Like my dreams
Tinged with red

Robin Wyatt Dunn writes

not the piece where you were right
and not the light inside
not which or were
and not the truth
not the burden of the ruth

the sound of the epiphany
with its rustling robes
shaking round the ceiling's dome
metal shaking out its cloak

a small signal down into my neck
clicking slow into the lock against the flint
whose spark
bilious green
floods the marsh