MP

Month: August, 2010

“MY AUTHOR PHOTO,” by Howie Good

Like a lace-
bordered

handkerchief
used to mop

up fires,
a gold

Ecuadorian
doubloon

the sun
has begun

to melt,
a look that says,

If anyone
finds a key

to a Volkswagen,
please

let me know.

“Autumn Orange,” by Ron Koppelberger

      The burning orange glow of twilight skies and sun burnished paths of eternity, the wind in synchronicity with the rows of wheat bloom and corn shoot, he lifts his arms in supplication to fall coronas of saffron glow and the faded underside of spring. Leaves quicken to brown and crackling exhaustions of billowy carpeting; crunching beneath his feet, flowing in rambling heaps around his ankles they flitter and fold in harmony with the onset of autumn fame. He blinks away the summer sparrow as the echo of crow caw fills the air and suspiring in breaths of fresh satisfaction the cool northern breeze blows like a mythical tempest.
      He smiles a burlap buttoned scarecrow grin and moves through lanes of fiery summer to the changing chrysalis of autumn fare, an affirmation of pumpkin angels and concealed serenades of waiting winter wash, waiting in death yet animated seasons of change, waiting for unchained winds to shift in silhouettes of fall fathers and uncanny mysteries of rebirth, evolution, waiting for god’s yearly revolution and the hands of time beckoning the beginning of a new passage.

“A Gardener’s Glove,” by Matthew Dexter

      I knew there was something familiar about her face, as if she had come from a place I had been, decades earlier, before the world closed in, before ending up a balding child psychologist trapped in an undecorated office barely larger than an oversized coffin, across from JCPenney and the Foot Locker. There was something about her that seemed strange, though I couldn’t place my finger on it. Wilson Elementary referred her to my office after she bit the tip off her gym teacher’s thumb. We needed to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. Click here to read more.

“All That’s Left is Conversation,” by Timothy Tanner

     “I would like to put feet to thoughts. Thoughts to action,” C.B. said as she leaned back from the table to glance at the television in the living room. Press here to Continue Reading

“Pink Car,” by Thomas Kingsley

The hood of
your car
is pink–
fleshy flesh hue.
Can I ride
inside
your pink hooded car,
your pinkish
Barbie car?

“1 (the number one),” by Tyler Wright

the sunny sky runs
yet makes light for the powers
then darkens the earth

“The Desert,” by Garrett Ashley

     The radio buzzed static wonderful. The little girl tapped the knob and begged for someone to speak. Anyone. If there was a signal, then there was a tower. If there was a tower, then the desert’s end must be near.
     The radio purred. There was a husky voice on the other end. Good morning, Arizo. . .
     “Come back,” she said. She beat her little fists on the red tin box and looked into the air. For a skyscraper or an airplane or a train. Anything that led to home.
     She walked for miles before hearing music. Buzzzzz. Her mommy had never allowed her to listen to good music before. She said the new generation’s tune sounded like dogs having sex with wood chippers. Nothing appropriate for little girls.
     Then she remembered her mommy was the reason she was out there alone with no signal for miles.
      Buzzzzz.
     “Are you there?” she said. She tore off a strip from her dress and tied it around her forehead. She climbed a dusty mountain and looked at the red world around her. The sun was setting silkly orange. “Don’t hesitate,” she said. It was her favorite saying.
     She sat on the dirt and listened to static. One day the batteries would die and she would stop walking. She would drink all the water and drift away.
     “I hate you,” she said to her mommy. If she’d have left the radio on the night she slept there would have been a lucid presentation of Sweet Home Alabama.