Author: Admin

Mario Moroni/Poetry

 *** Intermezzo by Mario Moroni   http://ragazine.cc/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Recitare_3_mixdown.mp3   Recitare le ceneri Ciò che rimane del giorno, ciò che non si vede più o che è stato mal visto, quel giorno quando John Trevor era uscito in strada, scese le scale: “Cielo quasi blu dalle mille forme scure” aveva commentato, sguardo oltre le nuvole tanti passi come quei passi ed ora camminava già oltre tre isolati, mentre Martin Jones, impiegato, era uscito arrabbiato, colto da collera strana dopo che suo figlio, così, al telefono, gli aveva detto: “Me ne vado”, voce oltre le nuvole, cielo dalle mille forme scure, così aveva voltato l’angolo e senza pensare aveva chiesto: “Perché?” Come se non capisse e di fronte alla metro aveva visto Stephanie Lane, madre di due, che correva con lo sguardo oltre le nuvole, con mille voci nella testa, credeva che i suoi figli non avessero fatto in tempo a scuola e così voleva telefonare, così, solo per sapere.       Intermezzo 1 Con lo sguardo oltre le nuvole, con mille voci nella testa, sopra le mille e mille luci mille riflessi dai libri sacri, da città deserte e mille, mille villaggi, così, ora riunite le greggi meccaniche, così, proprio ora, riunite le greggi alate, ora con questo sguardo sono io a parlare, io molte volte io, a quale voce ho diritto io, pastore tra mille e mille luci, pastore...

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Bill Yarrow/Poetry

RUN OF HUNTERS The leaking state. Comparative possum. The crushing sound of conjunction. Like eating a meal of attenuated steam. I am passionately committed to palisade market shares. Time is the bebop of the spheres. Your self insists you take inverted sides. What’s that? The raw temperature of grief? Art is the fire that burns horror from beauty. The staid orphans disappear into the crepuscular dusk. He crosses his legs, the street, himself. The mystery is just not credible. Look—Sadducees! September 12, 1928. Cache of cash. Hate’s grapefruit. Be vertical. Strive to be vertical. No way to know the correct pronunciation of  “chthonic.” Rude fluids nurture the nightmare. The squidness of existence.     THE BODY IN THE OTHER ROOM   I couldn’t parse the grammar of her body nor decode the secret softness of her neck. I didn’t learn the tango of her shining nor even once track the trespass of her tongue. No one could rob her being of its bullion or untie the satin lashes of her charm. I lay with her on a tarnished beach at noon. Above us, blind seagulls interrogated aqueous clouds. I whispered a sinuous … I could go on but I’m tired, tired of describing what doesn’t exist, what never existed, except in words, words, whorish words of a certain alignment, a certain innocuous provocative vicinity.       About the...

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Anum Kamran Sattar/Poetry

by Anum Kamran Sattar   Arrogance I wanted to participate in our class discussion on a scummy pond, so I said the water was not filled with bacteria, but some aquatic plant. But my professor dismissed my observation. He thought that nitrogen–containing waste from farmlands polluted the pothole. I wanted to pee in the shallow pond to irritate him further. I felt discouraged that my professor would not take me seriously. There was nothing to admire about the old man. He used a ballpoint pen to seal a hole in the front pocket of his checkered shirt. And though I was his favorite student, I turned away from him in revulsion. And soon we met a nature conservation officer, who told us that the surface of the water was not covered with blue–green algae, but common duckweed. I saw the color rise in my professor’s cheeks. He hurriedly thanked the manager and then boarded the college bus with the rest of us.     A Cautionary Tale with a Happy Ending Once a muskrat foraged for a few of my sweet scented lilies and dragged them onto the shore to relish their rhizomes   And after chewing on my small flowers of the brightest yellow the troublesome rat was sure of his accomplishment to tarnish me   So, I sprouted enough palatable pods to stock an extensive pond and...

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William Crawford/Flash Fiction

  “It’s like a heat wave…”    A Kool, Kool Fool From The Rock ‘N Roll School Shares A Frigidaire Nightmare.   I pulled into El Paso along about half past dead. The weathered wall thermometer hit 99 in the red! The Band, not Spike Jones, blared out of my battered VW’s audio box. The seedy motel, painted mostly in a garish Border pink, offered up rooms for $29 a night. In West Texas, you get about what you pay for. I anted up my savings which were stashed in an olive drab field sock. I was just free of the Army, hoping to land a gig at the local newspaper. My interview was first thing the next morning. The heat sapped all my  energy. A good night’s sleep might help me to shake off the taxing ten hour drive west from Ft. Hood. I nearly ran off the road more than once as my drained psyche fell victim to the monotonous desert prairie. The AC in my seedy room was sketchy from the get go. It alternated between metallic clunks and high pitched squeals, sandwiched around a more normal, electric hum. I soon slid next door to a fast food cantina where I splurged on two Lone Stars and a bowl of fresh, very hot chile. I hoped the stalwart Texas brews would help to calm me down...

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Candice Watkins/All That Jazz

Toward the end of his life Rusty again came home and founded a program bringing instruments into local prisons and teaching music to the inmates as well and accomplishing his pivotal role in founding the Music in the Air series through the City of Columbus Recreation and Parks Division.

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