George Moore ~ Three Prose Poems

Drop City

It was the mid­dle of the night, or it wasn’t. Do you remem­ber how that works? Now, the psy­choac­tive drugs por­trayed on each new series seem to be about mad­ness, as if that were an end to every­thing. But you remem­ber the day when we wad­ed into the school pond? How does mem­o­ry come back to hal­lu­ci­na­tions, or even the recall of a dys­func­tion, or the loss cre­at­ed by not being con­scious of who was –more

John F. Buckley ~ Notes at the End of the Thirteenth Baktun

I need to speak out about death and human­i­ty,
don’t I? The world ends in three hours. All
I have is you, a limp car­rot, and a change buck­et
on the kitchen counter. The flesh on my elbow
is ragged and hood­ed. I can almost pull it
over my head like a wim­ple. I don’t want to see
the aliens land. I don’t want to watch any
rabid vol­ca­noes emerge by the gar­den shed.

Survival’s no longer a giv­en, –more

Susan Thornton ~ Full Partner

Leslie squint­ed at the menu and willed her stom­ach to coöper­ate. She’d done her reg­u­lar half hour on the stair mas­ter, and sat in the steam room for a good 20 min­utes. That had always worked before to sweat out a hang­over. Maybe she was get­ting old. Thirty and change was when things caught up to you, she’d always heard, but didn’t want to believe. The over­head light caught on the heavy sil­ver –more

Rob Roensch ~ Come to Me and I Will Give You Rest

In the Carl’s Jr. park­ing lot across the street, two teenage boys in hang­ing-open red Carl’s Jr. shirts were argu­ing with a square woman who was stand­ing in the dri­ve-through lane. Parked at the pick-up win­dow was a dingy white mini­van with a punched-out head­light. The woman stabbed a fin­ger into the air between her and the teenagers. One of the teenagers clutched his belt with a fist as if –more