Paulette Spescha-Montibert writes

On the paddy field

night
and no moon

a small fire
and a man

a man
and no moon

a fire
and no flame

on the paddy field

Scott Thomas Outlar writes

Blue Light Special  

Oxygen slashed 

by six percent

it’s the deal 

of the week

Lung collapsed 

to increase pressure

failing body 

shutting down

Momentum snuffed 

at the gate

gun fires 

legs give out

Carry the torch 

to the grave

burning worms 

in the fade away

 

Mark Antony Rossi shoots

Almost Dead Asleep

Sheikha A. writes

Sticks and Stones

There is an undying death snagged 

in the trachea of a thin air

choking on its own redemption, 

but this room isn’t delivering

promises of painting a window 

opening on her lumpy canvas;

she’s collecting the sounds 

of her sobbing in a basket,

pushing its ropy fibres down 

her throat; the edge of his nails

can skin a metal, hers is a lupus 

feast of rotund flesh;

his hands can bring fire to its knees, 

hers are dislocated caps of ice blocks;

he can surge a burst of blood 

in the palest lips, 

hers are a slideshow of visitors’ 

imprints; he wears a crown

of earthworms, she smells 

of roasted ribs;

the wallpaper is reincarnation

the smoke from his lips a plunge

his teeth scissors 

the night crushing salt.
 

Ley Line

Lids closed, fingers open:

With mind and  palm along your body map

I’ll trace the truth of you,

Enlightenment needs no light,

This (any!) erotic journey

starts at the muscular center of fizzog expression:

I read your phrenology Braille, 
the honest simplicity of your long high forehead.

My explorers find your wisdom, 
mind’s eye between world’s myopia,

pause softly between your brows,

before plunging

                        down—

Forefinger sacrilegiously slaloms the Mimizuki,

j-curves under the septal cartilage,

lingers awhile (for your aromatic delight)

and balances across your fairy-tale philtrum

(the corridor chipped from your upper lip

by Night, the Angel of Conception,

that one, who offered a semen drop to god,

who chose a soul from Eden

to cradle in your mother’s womb,

--who'll guide you to heaven when you’re done—

a nice bedtime story trades the nevers for the nows.

My whorls rest at Cupid’s Bow.

I nock my arrow for awhile

where tongues trade moistures, exchange heat for heat,

rituals of encouragement for the holy trek to come.

….

Refreshed, the phalangic pilgrimage resumes.

Tips skirt the lover’s chin well to keep from falling in,

then hook under the jaw’s overhang in freefall

hardly braked at all by the void deck 
of Adam’s not-quite-absent apple

(the unswallowed remnant of  your first man’s forbidden fruit?)

and advance down and down,

hesitating at the mammary gate

(moist by now with the seer’s perspiration)

but able to resist the curious alpining temptation

in the knowledge that the end is near,

the mountains can wait --

sometimes the summit is not the sum.

Down and down, quickly now,

no urge to contemplate the navel

if consecrating the bishopric is the goal.

The pope pops in to Cathedral's portal,

enters stiff-necked, humbly exits.

The Tree of Life shakes from the roots.

….

All existence starts twice,

once with Mind, once with Life.

Landmarks come and landmarks go

but the path is marked by one straight line--

any perceptive fool can blindly find the way….

And yet the silk hegira road goes on

even farther, beyond the oasis spring

for those who wish to follow --

around the archaic curvature of Mother Earth,

that halves the buttocks’ apple

and turns the heart upside down,

and then up 33 stations of the spine,

--spine--the measure of stiffness in an arrow shaft,

--spine--the furniture that clasps the book together,

--spine--the hard stairway to the base of brain.

--Duane Vorhees

Shyam Sunder Sharma writes

Morning Walk

The sun did not rise today,
it stayed dark outdoors.
It has been dark
since you said Goodbye
without a fanfare.

I stayed in;
squirming in bed
while Adolph nudges me to wake.

A howling squall
floods my room with dust.
Dust and dirt
always find ways and means
to creep through
windows and doors.

Such permeable barriers
we surround ourselves in.

Then as if forgiven,
the rain comes pouring down,
incessant to quench the parched earth,
without judging if I deserve,
the smell of wet earth beckons
and obey I must.

I and Adolph
trip over each other
scampering outdoor.

He walks me leashed
into muddied puddles.
I see in them
floating past sins and regrets,
and dodge them clumsily.

Adolph turns back to
look at me with
his big brown muddied eyes
that speak.

Unleash me brother,
Set me free!
Splashing gleefully,
join me, he says,
so what if the sky
and your hair are grayed?

Don’t be befuddled
by small murky puddles,
be the child,
you once were.

Unleash the soul
set it free,
wash off the past.

We don’t need bridges
to get over
where we should be.

Into the puddles
and out of them
noisily we must go!

Feel, feel the earth clinging
to your feet.
Let the rain flirt
with your parched skin.

Get wet!
Get muddied, brother!
You wear just a skin
and are worried
while I care two hoots
for my double coat.

Morning walk done,
we return indoors.

I take care to wash
Adolph’s muddied paws,
while my aunt scoffs;
Kalyug! Arrgh!
Brahmin master
Washing dog’s feet!

Adolphie smiles mischievously,
he winks with his muddy brown eyes,
neither master, nor slave!
Just be yourself and
gimme a good hug buddy!

Care not for muddied feet,
few things in life
peel off gradually

 
what is close to skin
eventually sticks!

Nana Mark shoots