Two Channel by Tom Offland

Sometimes Joan sits and watches television. Its sound turned off, its glass screen blinking like a broken lamp. Who could say what she's thinking?

I could reach out my hand, ask her, say, Joan what are you thinking, but it would be like reaching my hand into the sunlight. It would be like talking at the television.

...READ MORE

172     for the server at the Blue Danube
Dim warmth, it takes
comfort food thrown
at your table

burning each other up as we ram into those orbits,
thankful that inertia lets us pretend
we’re such a “big deal,” speaking in metaphors
because euphemism is too direct, direct because
we’re making a show of hiding something
and
saying what it is that we’re hiding by way of negation.

And WHOOSH! Every time one goes by
I say this, and trace its afterimage
with my finger. I want the world to know
the universe is burning up
around us.

Trust fund, trust fund! What egg
un-nested, what fun, rusted plaque
and all. A stolen glance at legs
or cheat of a creamy back -
a short dress with hope at hem, delirious.

PART ONE
Sometimes Joan sits and watches television. Its sound turned off, its glass screen blinking like a broken lamp. Who could say what she's thinking? I could reach out my hand, ask her, say, Joan what are you thinking, but it would be like reaching my hand into the sunlight. It would be like talking at the television.

The Devil’s Mask by Khanh Ha

THE stable boy peered up from the saddle when the little master made a grunt in his throat. Something was coming. Out in the sun, a white-furred monkey stood looking in. After a while it waddled in like an out-of-shape old man and, once past the sun glare, and inside the cool dark, its fur looked as white as the rice flour. It usually came when the little master was in the barn.
...READ MORE

In the process of clawing my way to fame I commingled with a lot of foul characters. Shanghaied by their sordid ambitions, I was dragged into a moral black hole. I had to brown nose these scrubs, hate it as I did. And once I got famous the media hounded me, many of them claiming I was trash. The truth is I’ve battled these naysayers my whole life, finding that none of them has the DNA to be a rock star. So they can cram their crappy reviews; I say they’re the ugly ones. My art transcends them.

While walking home,          this man's
hat was blown off in dense wind.
When he got home,          there it was,
waiting for him on the front porch
in sure direction     like a hole-in-one.

Inside, the wife said, "thinking always
about history, some day you shall fall
into it          like a kind of time-warped
tunnel,          no return."     He has supper,
reviews the indigenous newspaper

as if written          like letters from Plato,
watches old Western episodes on TV,
drinks a highball with two cherries
reminding him of          sunrise-sunset,
goes to bed and dreams only in black

Amy:                   I spat on you by mistake then,
                            I’m sorry.

Anthony:            That’s alright, sweetheart.
                            If anyone was to spit on uz, I’d want it to be you!

Amy:                   Aw, you smoothie!

Anthony:            I know.
                           These wedding vows just write themselves, don’t they?

The stable boy peered up from the saddle when the little master made a grunt in his throat. Something was coming. Out in the sun, a white-furred monkey stood looking in. After a while it waddled in like an out-of-shape old man and, once past the sun glare, and inside the cool dark, its fur looked as white as the rice flour. It usually came when the little master was in the barn.

The opportune beauty of dramatic departures.

by Joseph Reynolds. Excerpted from his novel, Of Lunacy and Valor.

By the middle of the day after Dr. Keating’s death, Carrigan’s sleep was no longer dreamless. In fact, he dreamt with intent and purpose, for his dreams were a preamble to an event he would live very shortly. He dreamt of Jane Kiley. There would be a funeral. There would be an opportunity.
...READ MORE

The city is filled with red and white. It’s the country’s birthday. One hundred and forty six years old...

It’s not easy to wake up every morning to be George,
to have the strength to greet the day, to see with clarity,
feeling more than one can think.

To slowly and gently fix a collar spread—
stiff, but quite perfect.

To pluck splintered cedar trees
from brogue leather tips and to raise with horsehair,
strands of invisible thread,

and then to tie a bow—
loose and even, as if tailored on the fly.
Seamless it must look, to know how to be.

By the middle of the day after Dr. Keating’s death, Carrigan’s sleep was no longer dreamless. In fact, he dreamt with intent and purpose, for his dreams were a preamble to an event he would live very shortly. He dreamt of Jane Kiley. There would be a funeral. There would be an opportunity.