Thoughtcrime

If only the motor hadn’t been running sowell, so mammalian, impatient. Imight have watched her leave differently. Sitting in an iced shell of a Chevrolet, who’d remember the smell ofadead steering wheel? The corpse-like flesh ofavinyl armrest? Aticless, dashboard clock? What would there be to remember? She would have left without turning. She would have stepped out into the winter; walked away, and left me. But the car was idling. Oh baby, it was purring. and every dial was twitching. Every lubricated part waited for the automatic transmission to be engaged. And I was waiting, too. She must have felt us waiting. She must have sensed us throbbing, Warm, responsible, alive. Feeling us, she turned around. Anatural reaction. Just curious. Just a warm-wrapped brain noticing another. With dented tears welded to her face, She turned to notice me and my machine. And, baby, we were running well that winter, as I recall.

Jesse Doiron

Honey, guess what I found in the vacuum

There’s a giant Wookie under the cabinet wearing fishnet stockings and yes he’s out to get you

Constellations are just space freckles on a hot galaxy’s boob and yes she’s willing

My brethren lest we forget handshoes and horsegrenades red beans and rice inseparable con sal and yes we’re all knuckle deep in the blueberries

Tho ughtcrime

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Better Intentions

On the corner of Second and South Central Aboulevard just north of Hell, bent on better intentions But beggars come and go Someplace where sunlight never breathes, never glows Where your fall brings on winters so hot you tremble Cold and bitter, figuring you’re better off on your own anyway So you’d hide until you turned up missing Find you on a pile of your own rubble, Self-indulged troubles that you rather not mention From the bar off Third and Memory Lane More than once on a sad and misty morning, just a touch of rain Honeydew thick as mourning pie from the town’s only kitchen In search of a greasy remedy, Served with juice and all the fixins, Topped with a kind word from a soft spoken… Agentle touch but didn’t catch his name… Just put it on your tab; mark it up, another tally for blame Somebody else so you can rinse and repeat for another night of the same Another moon howling at your demons Until the wolves come to feed on more of your selfish reasons Excuses that will sentence you to that same grave From their plot of empty ambitions, Made on the corner of Second and South Central Aboulevard just north of Hell, bent on better intentions

Cody Pastorella

Mi Padre

Silently he stands before the plot of land, surveying the distance between the aqui and the aya Work-worn hands tighten on the shovel handle beneath, rivaling the carved grooves of time etched on the dark surface.

He sighs and spreads a hand across the image of the dampened earth, reveling in visions of a future that I can not see. “Mira, Corazon. Mira y oye. Look, listen.” Stooping, he crumbles a mound of dirt, closing his eyes to hear the path of the wind.

Beneath tightened eyes, years of prayers and hopes unfold. Las aguas negras of struggle and worry seep into the ground beneath — waves of pity and despair choke as they rush toward the firm surface. Their hold on him is lost. And the years fall limply from his frame.

Lost Minds

He told me that he wasn’t Afraid of losing his mind, He had already lost that Years and years ago.

What he suffers so Badly from is the Tears on his heart. That is the black hole, the Dark of winter for him.

We write back and forth Extolling the beauty we see within each other, Trying not to sound trite or Become wordless In the religious fervor of Pouring our hearts on the page.

We listen to what the other has been Directed to pen, and Wonder where it all came from Marveling at the calling we have received, and Being grateful for the companionship.

His love is my mother’s, Sustaining, steadfast and protective He brings me breakfast and cigarettes, Filling in the gaps of my need Without question.

The mind is no loss. The heart still beats and the Feelings consume the paper, Strengthening circulation.