By Benjamin Philips The mighty brook near my house, spends time babbling its secrets to me. Hello little one. Do you, yellow jacket, like my clothes as I do? Who is the sun, that flowers should follow its arc across the heavens?
by Ben Phillips The world around me continually changes. I refuse to speak. The dreariness of life, satisfied with no change. I refuse to speak. Some question what it means to be alive right now. I refuse to speak. They doubt their own strength and will to find happiness. I refuse to speak Politicians make their desperate promises I refuse to …
by Matt Dischner Shenandoah stirs my wooded memory, crumpling leaves an underfoot percussion to longdraw exhales on the violin tumbling through an oak aged ravine I remember from childhood, an old plantation and reenacted battlefield, a Civil War camp for young boys. They dressed us up and fed us hardtack and I pointed a toy rifle at a boy I …
by Matt Dischner The air was dense with human acridity, a humidity reinforced by an excess of scarves, puffer jackets, and exhalation. Leaving 77th the lights gasped and died, the train lit only by stars fixed to the subway walls punctuated by the jolting irregularities in the track and the wails of Robert Plant wafting from a young man’s headphones.
by Matt Dischner There’s a cleanliness in Irish Whiskey. The taste of sweet, fresh cut grass drawn straight from the well. Sans-serif, light bold, no yeast or charcoal just negative space.
by Matt Dischner I’ve searched for America in the words of others, Kerouac and McCarthy, Steinbeck and Muir In Abraham Lincoln and Titus Andronicus Ink on page or pixel LCD illuminated in incandescent bedroom light, what could I possibly have missed?
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