Maybe it’s a tin ear for poetry. “Do unto others” didn’t balance like a see-saw when you heard it? You were playing with fire while others sang about whose land this is? Sunday mornings the others gaped at visions of camels and needles, but no image came to you? Sad. In history class you forgot Eleanor’s 4 freedoms, but spurred on the 4 horsemen, knowing they would never ride up your gated street. You heard ...

Sky perfect dull gray intermittent spits of rain not cold or warm and just enough wind to get inside a jacket and I have nothing to do and all the time in the world to do it. A good day to go home early turn out all the lights open the bottle and look through the window at the sky until everything goes dark. Gregory Luce is the author of the chapbooks Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House Publications) and Dr ...

                    . . . as if he were holding the sea in his black hands,                     as if, after giving him all that power, she now could give           ...

Anger. Tears. and a fleeting desire for violence disrupt a dreamer's dream of race-less love in world without lynching. certain moments stoke outrage-fueled flames, exciting anger - our sense of self’s immune sytem. certain moments remind me that we fine folk are born with holes in hearts, yearning for forever. forever seems most pleased by a reflection ever-changing so, some ill-aim with silly ideas that m ...

What: An event for writers hosted by Bourgeon When: Wednesday, September 7, 2011 at 8 p.m. Where: In the U Street neighborhood. Contact jessica@dayeight.org to RSVP and receive the exact address. Come share your work with other poets and fiction writers. Sit back in Bourgeon editor Jessie Wilde’s living room and read a poem you’ve written, or an excerpt from a short story. We’re professional, but this is no ...

A new poem by Naomi Thiers: "I think of the woman driving Cypress Street Viaduct in the ’89 quake who heard God hiss: go back. ...

“The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed To the river bottom Where the fishes come to knock on it And listen.” – Charles Simic I too would be a stone if only I could harden myself enough I would fit myself to the palm of a boy with bottles to break or be kicked along the curb by a sad teenaged girl. I would delight in being skimmed across the surface of a pond happy to then sink silent past astonished fishes if ...