Baking in My Sleeping Bag

You’re on the other

side

being abstract, acting

distant,

 

I have a stack of

thoughts in front of me,

unfinished; have poems to

write, poems I

should be writing; instead

 

I’m writing this; an

 

alarm goes off, it’s mine

 

Saturday morning, you’re

laying around somewhere,

Cootie Williams is blowing

Gator Tail; I shut the blinds

 

and the world outside

goes on and on and about

and out without me,

 

this poem is running, jazz is

dead, so are all those jazz

men playing, dead, but time doesn’t

make sense anyway; it’s

just going in circles, stealing

what it can,

 

which is everything,

 

we aren’t friends; I can’t see the

trees,

 

I’m hiding from the sun.

 

by Thomas Pescatore

 

Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.

Terminal

The time until you die

grips the top of my hand

 

grates my fingers against

puckered metal

 

collects skin and bone

shavings

 

into a soft pile

on the good China.

 

by Jane Juran

 

Ashlie Allen

Like lace

 

Itsuki always dances behind cob webs

There, he can manifest several shapes

and pick which one he likes

 

Sometimes I help him move,

for he has no control over his particles

He is like lace,

weightless and transparent

 

Sometimes I worry I will injure him

if I want to kiss his cheek bone

or cradle his hands

 

If he would beg for my love,

I might be happy

If he would look at me and blush,

I might feel gorgeous

 

Today when he performs,

I tilt against the fireplace mantel,

hands gripping my elbows,

eyes exhausted with longing

 

I wish I could be a ghost

and be afraid of myself

for a good reason

 

 

Mournful  moments

 

I imagined myself dancing,

arms out to cuddle lonely spirits,

eyes closed to feel powerless

 

I imagined someone told me I was handsome

and didn’t need to smile

I imagined I was in Japan,

the place my embryo developed

 

I imagined there was romance to my suffering

and that the pulse in my chest was a hand begging for me

I imagined the lights were off

and that my shadow was someone I liked

 

I imagined the room was full of demonic voices

and that I was not afraid of anything

I imagined I was dying and that my funeral

would be  beneath the ocean

 

I imagined I was titling into glass

and cracking my bones

I opened my eyes and saw a skinny silhouette standing

ahead of me, arms tied behind the back

 

I made not a sound as the figure came forward

and kissed my throat

“Stop picturing mournful moments.” a feminine voice hissed

“It is shattering my organs to see you so sad.”

 

I remember hearing myself laugh

Then I was unconscious, floating through lavender mist

and tiny insects

 

by Ashlie Allen

 

Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She is also a photographer. Her work has appeared in Literally Stories, The Gloom Cupboard, The Birds We Piled Loosely and others. She wants to visit Japan one day.

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