Fresh poetry from Felino A. Soriano

from Quintet Dialogues: translating introspection

Of bass

║5║

twice this morning i

rotated my structural dilemmas

creating re-created recipes of day’s oval extrapolation (there, in the continuity of elongated

rhythm                         s)

                                                                        serial this or these

interpretive knowingness                                pluralized energies

underneath the understated

regressive light (my wish here

                                                                                    for the NINE:pm

shade of night’s decent gradations)

waning upon aggregation of rest’s interrelated theories

why:when:whatCLOCK:

informing the body’s cycles

each earthen shade of entirety

finds reach and focal comparisons within speech and internal excavation

║6║

recalling the young morning

                        her presentation of smile and collocated holding of child

each representation

gilded by the context of emotion and system of needed reciprocation

watch and improvise

collecting space in the continuity of sounds

                                                re-echoing like applause

in the praising momentum of self-seeing differentia, exclaimed

║7║

when allowed these

rhythms’ intricate syllables

recall a specialized spatial emblem as

known or familiar into an onlooking brilliance

the identified as self in the woven concepts of

interrelated wisdoms 

Four poems from T.S. Bond

Letters to a Goddess

Far below rock bottom

Falling forevermore

Swimming in a sea of quicksand

I know my time has come

I stare God right in her face and ask her why she does it?

She told me there's no reason

She told me there's no grand scheme

She told me I just pushed you all in motion, and it watched you like a rolling snowball

You're all to blame for your own woes

So next time you want to ask me, Ill be resting in a mirror

I asked if she could save me, and she didn't answer

My head's about to go under 

There are so many thing I wish i would've done

There is so many things I wish I would've known

A kiss to God nonetheless for pushing this upon us.

A kiss to her nonetheless for pushing this upon myself.

I'd rather drown in quicksand, then never breathe at all.

Lady Envy LVNV

The heat was dry in the desert.

She found me beneath the lights submerged in the sounds.

It was night but that doesn't matter in a insomniac city.

I was there to relinquish the burdens of past lives, to claim true freedom.

I was there to live.

You must go fast to survive.

You must play to win.

It was a marathon of sin in the city of Dis.

Temptation sang beautifully like a hypnotic siren,

calling to me so softly. So sweetly.

She found me beneath the lights submerged in the sounds.

Her name was lady Envy and she wanted to show me what I already knew in my heart all along.

Natalie Amber

Where have you gone my only one?

We had so much left undone and now you're gone

I try as hard as I can to follow your tracks, but it's been snowing all night

It's so cold tonight

Night after night

If you ever decide to come back 

return to follow my tracks

You will not find any because I'm a ghost without you.

The Observer

I used to be the earth and you were a flower

I am a stone

a statue and you are the sculptor

A stone resting in a field of many flowers

watching infinite cycles of pollination

Forever frozen and preserved like the limestone of the pyramids

I rest in my gorgeous prison

Forever the observer 

so many lifetimes have passed

I am stone, a Statue and you, my dear, The sculptor

I used to be the earth

Three poems from D.L. Tricarico

PACIFIC BEACH

 

you leaned on the bar

sexy

like last time

bent over the pool table

drunk

to make your shot

cue stick

sliding through your hand

like a scepter.

i asked for more

jack daniels

& wished i could

turn up the volume

of the “4 songs for a dollar”

jukebox.

you smiled

after scratching

& sipped your

sex on the beach

just like last time.

i accepted then

your vacant eyes & how they

did not remember me.

soon  it was 2 a.m.

the bartender

kicked us out

like last time

& unplugged the jukebox

before any of my

songs had played.

 

 

 

VIRGIN OF THE TRAILER PARK

 

Corrugated aluminum hides what seems

To be an endless procession of lovers, friends,

And silent, desperate angels of the night

And not-so-night,

My virgin of the trailer park.

 

Past sins are purged under metal

And dark secrets cleansed behind screen door mesh.

Your tears bleed from wounds

Made in your soul,

My virgin of the trailer park.  But tonight,

 

I celebrate with the celibate

Who begs for love and buys the brand of

Romantic masturbation

That you sell him

              My virgin. . .

 

He hears you cry for love

You scream for physical love

And curse the emptiness of the act

And he sees you (Renaissance actress

With the short term memory) laugh in his face.

 

You act out of the part of Woman in Love

But not near him.

You dance, sweet virgin, in your satin sheets,

Dreaming of the normalcy of Sophomore crushes.

Loneliness is the straight razor of your heart.

 

  

 

LONG WAY DOWN

 

Her drive to the mountains

was nothing more than a pause

between real world obligations. 

She’s hoping for a bit of peace,

and the wish for it sits in the palm

of her outstretched hand

like a tiny, frightened sparrow.

Later, when the sun shatters

into pieces that eventually become the stars,

she takes the time to think

of every choice she’s made and all

the days that have come after. 

And Sunday evening, as her tires roll

along the endless asphalt curves

because she hears the old world calling,

she gazes through her windshield

and understands that no matter how perfect

the turning Earth, it’s still a long way down.

Five poems from James Babbs

In Slow-Motion

 

toward the end

my father grew weaker

pulling himself out of bed

holding on to the dresser

using it to reach the door

his legs buckling beneath him

before I had a chance to catch him and

he was falling

while I watched him

in slow-motion

but all I could do

was stand there

my father in his

undershirt and boxers

lying on the floor and

I remember

bending over him

asking him

if he was okay

his eyes staring back at me

my mother behind me

crying into the phone

 

 

A Year Ago Today

 

9/20/08

 

it was a year ago

today

when you died

just a couple of months

past your 50^th birthday and

the cancer swallowed you

one piece at a time

your body growing weaker and

I remember

how we had to

help you into the bed and

later

when your brother came in

to tell you he was leaving

you started crying and

I asked you

what was wrong

because

I thought

maybe

you were in pain and

needed something

but you told me

it was just that

whenever somebody

told you goodbye

you were never sure

if it was going to be

for the last time

 

 

Hot Night

 

that night we first met

at a mutual friend’s place

after the wiener roast was over

when we were walking up the hill

back toward the house

on such a hot night

for the first week in October

and we didn’t have much to

say to each other

the sky littered with stars

out there in the country

miles from the city and

the wind slowly rising up

caressing our faces

stirring the ends of

your long dark hair

 

 

I Was in Love

 

I was in love with

the bionic woman when

I was just a kid

imagined myself

the six million

dollar man running

through the fields

leaping boulders

in my way and

throwing around bad guys

as if they weighed

nothing at all

 

 

Whenever I See Her

 

I’ve been thinking about

the fifteen-year old girl again

with the long blonde hair

wearing her blue swimsuit

those white straps

across her naked back

almost 28 years ago

our first day of swimming

freshman year of high school and

I can, still, see her golden skin

thinking about

how soft it must have felt and

both of us in our forties

she’s married with kids

for a long time now

but whenever I see her

I remember that girl and

the boy I used to be

floating in the water

clinging to the edge of the pool

watching her walk away

Five poems from James Babbs

Commencement

first

I had to wait in line

for my new license plate sticker

I think they had

the slowest person they could find

doing the job and

the woman in front of me

turned and said

if people have their checks ready

when they get up there

it shouldn’t take very long

then before it was my turn

they opened another line up and

before I knew it

I was back in the car

I didn’t know

if I was ready to go home

or if I wanted to go somewhere else

for some reason

I decided to go to the mall

because

I guess

I wanted to go some place

where I could walk around for awhile

it was another one of those days

where nothing felt right and

I kept walking past all the stores

wondering what I might find

but not expecting much of anything

I kept watching all those young faces

most of them probably

more than half my age

but I was convinced

they all knew more than me

I was in my 40s

but it didn’t feel like it

everyone had such rich fulfilling lives and

I was still waiting for mine to begin

The Night I Broke My Foot

I never broke any bones

until I was almost 30 years old

back when I was working

the night shift at Big-Mart

the old one

before they built the super one

over on the other side of town

I unloaded trucks and stocked shelves

from nine at night

until five in the morning

my buddy Todd and me

and another guy got to come in

an hour before the rest of the shift

so we could clear out the back and

have it all ready to go

by the time the others arrived

out on the floor I worked

mostly in the household chemicals area

you know

where you’ve got toilet bowl cleaner and

laundry detergent and

cans of air freshener to make

your bathroom smell good and

all those kinds of things and

I was out there trying to find room for

a second box of furniture polish

when Lonnie came out of the back

pulling this big pallet of detergent

these huge boxes of Tide

for some special sale that was coming up

he looked like he was having trouble with it

so I ran over to give him a push

but one of the boxes fell off the back

and landed on my foot

these were 20 pound boxes

or something close to that

of powdered laundry detergent and

it fell from about four feet and

when it struck me it hurt

but I didn’t think it was that bad

but when I put my weight on it

I almost passed out from the pain

I had to sit down on the floor

taking off my shoe and sock

seeing the bruise starting to form

I remember Lonnie told me to

get on the pallet jack and

he took me up to the front of the store

because

that’s where the manager was

sitting in the snack bar

wearing a red tie and

a bright yellow dress shirt

he was probably drinking coffee

trying to keep himself awake

when we told him what happened

he looked like he didn’t know

what he should do and

he kept asking us a bunch of questions

like he was trying to figure out

how he could make it our fault

and I don’t think

he believed my foot was broken

because

he kept asking me how it felt and

just nodded his head

when I told him

I couldn’t put any weight on it

but when Lonnie told him

it sounded just like the time

he had broken his leg

the manager finally relented and

told me to go to the hospital

and have it checked out

he gave me a form and told me

to have a drug test done while I was there

I guess just to make sure

Todd got to drive me to the hospital

because

I’d rode with him to work

we were in the emergency room

for three or four hours and

when we got back to the store

I showed the manager my papers

and the pair of aluminum crutches

they had given to me

I had two broken bones in my left foot

but he still acted funny about it

I guess he didn’t think

that a box of detergent

no matter how big they were

was enough to do something like that

I had to sit in the snack bar

until it was time to go home

writing down as well as I could

exactly what had happened

on our way home

Todd and I had to stop and

get my prescription filled

it was for some pain killers and

I thought it was funny

because

Big-Mart had a pharmacy

but it wasn’t open 24 hours

later on that day I had to

come back to see the doctor and

he put a cast on my foot

a blue one made of nylon and

I got to stay home for the next four weeks

using my crutches to get around

while drawing workman’s comp

but don’t get me started

about workman’s comp

because

that’s a whole other story

We’ve Got One Bar In This Town

we’ve got one bar in this town

where the funeral home used to be

and when the bar first opened up

it was called the Last Stop

but it goes by a different name now

and we don’t have a funeral home anymore

if you die here they just drive your body

over to one of the nearby towns

and if you want to be buried

in one of our local cemeteries

after your funeral service is over

they’ll drive you back again

around here we have two cemeteries

one north of town and

the other one when you head south

my family’s buried in the south one

at least the members of my family

who are buried around here

some of them are buried in other places

and some of them

I don’t know where they are

but I was talking about the bar

it has one pool table

and a couple of pinball machines

and I think they serve food

most nights until nine o’clock

but you can get pizzas right up until they close

and I’ve been there a few times

but I never go there to eat

I just go there

because

I want to get drunk on

another lonely Saturday night

and I always see the same guy

he’s there no matter when I go

asking someone to buy him a beer

and he’s not really anybody’s friend

but everybody knows his name

They’re Both Dead Now

they’re both dead now

the old couple that lived

up the street from us

when I was just a boy

and she was always baking

some kind of cake or cookies

and when she pulled them from the oven

she’d let you eat some of them

while they were still warm

with a big glass of cold milk

and he’d sit out on their porch

holding his pipe between his teeth

and I remember

watching how the smoke

curled around his face

I think his name was George

and her name was Stella

I don’t think they ever owned a TV

but they always had a radio going

with the volume turned up so loud

you could hear it from the street

and he always called her Sweetie

and she always called him Mr. Green

I don’t think they had any children

and I remember

they had this deck of playing cards

they kept in the living room

that were much larger than

any normal-sized deck

but I never saw them using the cards

so I can’t tell you what kind of games they played

Dogs

I’m thinking about

someone beautiful

tonight

someone living in another town

who doesn’t love me anymore

and this happens to me

all the time

I sit around

thinking too much

dredging up the past

when I know

I should just let it go

and the dogs start barking

from somewhere down the street

I guess

they’ve found something

lurking in the dark

or maybe they’re just cold

and have been outside long enough

and now they’re ready to go

back into the house

Two texts from John Pursch

Noontime Moans

Welding prebiotic reindeer couple in dermal seclusion, prancing on down chariot wool, smitten with salient clarity tunes. Endogenous ferrets melt dollops of propeller pumice, pleated into sterilized staph embers, roping in bestial plungers with falsehoods. Addled Roman histology mockers, fettered and irresolute, land just monuments away from stiffly cropped but halcyon Grayliens, popping used Camelot Six enclosures, fed to suppurating inches by belted barnyard bailiffs. Verbally ovoid wrecks plan irrigation towns, slaving on baby fly schematics, craving monitored memories. Extant tumblers cry for notation particles, beefy whimsy, and incursions of egret pellet mousse, hobbled by overland witch canopies. Ever floating, aspiring remodelers blur the loins, betting under tactical freeze gantries with garrulous corduroy freaks. The eddy of prophetic segues, milking prescience from truth’s faulty static lecture, presses a knotted world’s ordinary models of spinal taste till clods of buildings clip a cardboard pedestal with proving cheers, hinting at quadrennial sagacity. Milling suburban intruders squirm in Botox amity, nailing velvet torque, pneumatically decoded into topiary doorstep motes. Heaving soaked poodles at lifelong stutter pars, emergent foals preclude argon rinks, throbbing at empaneled crates, slipping on lush pleura.

Hackles groan, cluck an epiglottal broach, and cavil for dromedaries in culled silence, greening into docile pairings. Some remanded stilton priests regain ephedrine at drooling quarters, but history careens incarnate, featureless in repository cloves. Dreg controls run underground, cementing sodden emulators, sneaking cornered dominoes between systolic hovels, debasing effulgent cavities. Silver hoes extol astringent pantaloons, inverting elk handles, boggling whomever severed heirs dashed toward, gearing down tumescent tiers. Logging after leeward trolleys, sinking sebum cuties blanche at torsion gnomes in nubile gravitation coats, setting fashion back a thousand island sunsets. Whey knots into wiggling schemes of crown duct sanctuaries, creasing D-Day with a trillion empty outriggers, bottling the sandbar to a drawling Texan. Laudatory noontime moans wrap an eely loch aground, festering in choral Plasticine, dormant but caught in arching kestrel troops. Plangency concusses harmonic caterers, steaming for lounge choirs, broiling sudoku myths in glossy anterooms. Anchored mimes slurp down voluminous billows of marshland stew, gargling goulash and saltpeter cheese. Pleasantries hop drowned roofers, creaming their pickled earrings with dungeon grouper chills, leafing shelled with gill police.

Phenyl Gum Harrows

Due to crosshatch pollenation, verbal overtones stir actual contract prunes betwixt epaulettes and land crab seas, accordion oily faced fossils. Sewn she be gratis weighty, prepositional, floored amber grits, mope ‘n grope trellis appeases Dover, daguerreotype oven when apple tune’s oddity to wend over walled hay’s mercantile plea. Shelby revs to haunted order, burbling thruster team mnemonics, harkened to tasty whines, fallow treble shore, meted into column easy floats. Dirty mar monocles peculate a shorn comestible, upshots befriending Lubbock guards, impish lukewarm terriers renominating vernal sleet. Trusty shoal arcs flicker grail locality, truncated into foreign legions, wielding pros and lopped sickles for halter sills in marigold parlance drink. Cobbling tempered shade sores, clanging after modal sevens, booties prey on locomotive scorches, cramming for dime store sleep. When will tonsure buy marimba collars for theatric loading poles, profiting polluted landscapes, menial to peat? Brow gum harrows ease to goulash issue fever, caulked in tolling ballpark news, scampering to stats of thumping figurines, blown sacred in the reedy coda’s Sunday spawn. Welter flaws the seedcake inset, coyly braying sorted paddleboat chirps, reaching to scratch off phenyl eaves in gracious cardinality. Fortune happens, crushing whistle-stop goons, sifting the conductor’s keystone pockets, flocking rationed pomegranate teeth to shoreline caper inductees, all for engraved paupers. Pusillanimous erosion wags a bulging samovar, attaching braver hatcheries to very small birds.

Excerpt from "Country" by Shelby Stephenson

FROM COUNTRY

Take me to that dark delta Mississippi − and
you − on a “North Carolina Century Farm −

100 Years of a Continuous
Agricultural Heritage − Honored by the N.C.

State Fair and the N.C. Department of Agriculture −
NCDA” − just like the sign with the mule-shoe

mounted on top reads at the entrance to our
driveway at 985 Sanders Road, Benson,

N.C. 27504.  I want the roam and the world
poised in that pose I saw one time, just once; I thought

That’s the way to play a guitar, yes, without
considering open-strings or arrangements. I saw

Gene Autry once:  Greensboro’s War Coliseum, with
Champion: he “owned” part of the Angels by then:

Anaheim’s a long hum from Tioga, Texas, his
birthplace:  Will Rogers heard him sing and

strum while Gene was killing time as a railroad
telegraph operator in Sapulpa, Oklahoma:

those two words are wonderful: “Sapulpa,”
Creek for “sweet-potato,” “Oklahoma?”

“Okla’s” Choctaw for “people” and “humma”
means “red”:  as a boy I’d shake my wiry, strawberry

locks and sing “That Silver-haired Daddy of Mine”:
Gene Autry wrote it: “Here Comes Santa Claus,”

“Twiddle O Twill,” and “Be Honest with Me.”
Johnny Bond toured for years with Autry, saying

not much worse than loneliness and the bottle can
let one down:  Gene was king, singing the hits of the time:

sold a ton of “Peter Cottontail” and “Rudolph the
Red-nosed Reindeer.”  Coffee on the burner

starts to boil. The meter-reader stops among convivial
bushes where finches feed and my red-bellied

suets, acknowledging me with chesty clucks; O
Pileated One overhead leaves me lonely, my white and

black wings fading into silver, out of hearing, my red
crest in sunlight monument’s victory. I’m

vanguard’s element, ravishing when I’m “on” and
dark as a dungeon when I’m “off.”  Vanguard lofts

Joan Baez, 1960, the biggest-selling folk album
by a woman. Joan of Folk Singers, Queen Water,

Fire, Wind, Dirt, Muffled Applause, Rain, Last Encore!
Her curtain closes. Fiddledeedee!  Mother

goosed the bumblebee!  I’m a Flag Day boy myself.
My parents did not know what I would be.

I just killed a black ant traipsing across my
page, a considerable speculation for a woman’s

man, though I was named for a girl − Shelby Jean Davis −
as I’ve said many times before.  Baez could fill

up Camp Randall Stadium at the University of Wisconsin.
I saw that spectacle. Would that she could fill

up a cow pasture today?  At the Heinz Memorial,
1965 − I saw her there − with Robert Zimmerman, the

Dylan of folk-fame.  By the way, Baez’s dad was a
physicist and her mother was a dramatist; betwixt them

both they named Joan, Joan, a name foreshadowing
music like a duck slinging water off its

back while jittering for a Junebug.  Joan got real wet
at the 1960 Newport Folk Festival:  that’s

where she signed with Vanguard:  no wonder her sun
shone quickly, shinier than any sheen that would contain

her, “House of the Rising Sun” her theme rooming a
repertoire of songs Whitman and Sandburg would have

loved:  Weavers, Odetta, Seegers, Belafonte, well, her prize
spread beyond the northeast to canyons and valleys, all the

way to my Cow Mire Branch, for I loved to see her
climb, reveled in her voice, even bought a Goya and

sang the songs of the time:  “Five-Hundred Miles”:
Teardrops fell on Mama’s note when I read the

words she wrote, for I was 500 miles away from
home: “home” must be the most haunting word:

get on a superhighway and wheels hum for the common
course’s tireless, steaming togetherness wheeling

stillness like the love of a woman for a woman’s
love:  consider my mother who worked the fields

right alongside the men!  I’ll tell you who I am
and salute women greater than Joan, any Joan,

martyr, or companion constant anchoring Identity.
I like Joan Baez for not selling herself out to Image,

the idea that success depends on giving the public
what it eats: that’s the way Pete Seeger got on

ABC-TV’s Hootenanny:  Baez said No, I
won’t appear if Pete can’t: refusing to pay some of her

federal income tax, she did not support the government:
she opposed the Vietnam War:  I would sing

anywhere:  Cricket loves my voice, plus a shoat did
too:  FFA project:  Future Farmers of America:  when

Billy Wright Stephenson brought my pig down
here to Paul’s Hill in a hog-box I made in shop as

part of my Greenhand Program, he handed me
the pedigree: first thing I saw: “Shelby’s Lady”:

without consulting me, he named my Duroc and
put the name in print for the record: I was seventeen

years old, the cock of my walk.  And could I sing too!
I’d scratch her ears: Here, girly, girly, come get your

corn:  I crooned with all my heart to Shelby’s Lady:
I got a pig at home in a pen and corn to feed her on;

all I need’s a pretty little girl to feed her when I’m gone: 
oh how she could grunt and swoon, as if of wind,

snuffling gusts of fodder I’d throw down to her from the
loft. You can’t beat that!  Joan Baez never had a hog, I’ll

bet:  if she did, she’d share her blue ribbons:she’s that kind of
woman:  life in cabins, boroughs:  Wurzburger’s

one of my favorite beers, brewed first about
1643: now I’m a non-alcoholic beer-man:

I have been there and done that:  youth’s dark as
Debra Kaufman’s look at her childhood, being

born of a bloody beauty, arriving into darkness,
never quite shedding that skin, the daughter

writing about the mother, connecting
semblances of light free as possible from

mistakes, for the poet can neither beat the human
predicament nor tie it−it is too Human−Necessity’s

trap: the poet’s father holds the key, the poems
dwelling in houseless-heads her mind shapes from

Caroline to Iowa for his funeral, feeling
guilty enough to write down feelings in songs

once she gets back home.  It rains just the same in
Iowa as it does in Carolina.  A blurb might go:

The Next Moment begins in the Word, perhaps
accidentally, that adults introduce children to

valleys forever valleys, as childhood’s fraught with
longing and failed successes:  the Poet desires to relate to

Father, though the father, dead, charges a light to her
closeness, haloing her body, The Poem: the father

palms her crown: in that moment, The Poem as a
whole swerves and sings, holding on for dear

life to the lost girl back there with her mother whose
straps slip into her beer.  Forgiveness bows, shifts

identity into a weeping willow cry, cry, crying. 
Beers I have loved?  Forgiving myself ahead

of time for actually leaving out some I have drunk,
drinking too many at times, too, I yearn to lean

body to my early years:  this poem must have
discipline:  I want it to be a country song

rounder-upper, rough as the poet’s father in
The Next Moment, callousing the refrain good

girl gone bad with rain falling on her head as she
turns the key and escapes that House of Nicotine and

that mother bored out of her mind, wishing her own
dark soul would take her away into the night’s

stark leaving, ravished, bright with strength to live herself 
and feel Love supporting the daughter-wife-husband-father −

make their relationship a slam. Listen up:
human beings are imperfect: so are poems:

Miller, Budweiser, Yuengling, Pabst, Schlitz,
Heineken, Samuel Adams, Blue Moon:  oh for

Amber O’Doul’s?  Clausthaler!  Is Utopia a beer!
Phil Balsley’s one of the Statler Brothers.  Get behind me,

Alphabet! Lew DeWitt wrote “Flowers on the Wall”;
Harold Reid’s bass’s deep as J.D. Sumner’s −

hey, what is this − not a one named Statler! 
I’ve been to Staunton, Virginia:  Statler?

The boys took the name from a brand of facial
tissue: “Whisper Soft?” Not good as “Statler.”

Their song titles titillate a dark coolness
The Next Moment wenches from a window

up above: “You Can’t Have Your Kate and
Edith Too”:  “Ruthless”:  yes, I’d say, like banjo-jokes.

The last installment of Russell Streur's "City of Bones"

CITY OF BONES #16

Coastal flooding

Damage control
Old lines of thought
String of perils

Sound bite
Silent partner
Line of questioning

“The debris is here,”
the beachcomber said.
“But no one is listening.”

Data purge
Memory overload
Accidental release

Genetic breach.


CITY OF BONES #17

Mutant virus

Blurred line
No ending
Unusual gloom

Constant toll
Brutal defeat
Vise tightens

“Fear is acceptable,”
the doctor said.
“There’s a lot we can translate into medicine.”

Radon threat
Structural ambivalence
Hate crime

Unlimited mileage.


CITY OF BONES #18

End of the show

Police state rises
Smugglers
Advertisers flee

Puppet rulers
Struggle for supremacy
Demand silence

“They’ve been preparing this a long time,”
the senior official said,
“It is not coming out of the blue.”

Temporary burial
Evictions
Stir ghosts

City abandoned.


CITY OF BONES #19

Placebo effect

Almost like
Being there
Weightless and invisible

One pill cures past
Millions of workers
Pay price

“No one is going to shed a tear for these people,”
the visiting professor said.
“This battle has been lost.”

Day into night
Wireless dreams
Deliberate amnesia

No one immune