Yes, I was caught born, stumbling, wasn’t meantto gain the weight of my own feat, own toeswere pigeoned, tumbling off the edge in throwstoward what? to whom? & where again? The spentchange clattered rust onto the floor, sky bent like matches washed of phosphorus. If snow’smight compass passed me hint of…

The novelty of wearing sparkly stilettos To spite an absinthe-faced witch has worn offMy shins are suffering spasms from supporting muscles walking miles of yellow brick While I wait for the witch’s envy colored faceTo storm up cement steps and claim my soul for some shoes,She clouds outside in a storm…

If you could see my memoriesYou’d see a toddler pointing at a cloudThat doubles as a bird in flight;A soldier falling, Flying from a whirlpool off the bridge; Cars crashing, Crashing,Smashing;Cloud of smokeClearing like a deer on the run; Polka dots and tightPeach pants;A cherry cough dropResting on a pillow top; Blue-tinged mushroomsOn…

Having arrived at lastyou will never have left, will you? And those spiresdancing in the afternoon heatare the spires ofthe palace of dreams, aren’t they? And the deserted quay,and the empty sky,and the boats drawn upin the sand, the gale foreverthreatening, forever receding— they all, all appearon the stamp on…

The lady in the mirror strokes back her hair. A dark sea swells  between her fingers. She settles like snowflakes into stillness. Stillness aches before the dawn. The dissonant chink of an iron  bell in the antique clock in the kitchen cleaves her thoughts in  the falling, hammers iron to…

Would always tear.In momentsOf subtle joy,Or ecstatic hope.A slow rolling tearCreating a single make-upLine smearThat only I knew. After an eroticSexual release,Her right eyeWould sparkle glowCreating theMagical oxymoronWe became. ____________________________________________________________ R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor.  He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. His web…

A hush fell upon the excited crowd of awed faces lit by gaudy glow sticks, andbattery powered lamps clutched in sweaty hands.6 o’clock, the allotted time. The fireworks’operator flashed a glance at a thin womanin a black plastic headset biting her lip.Beside the tall glass portal a motherand three young children…

Stars fall against the murk  of the night sky, a rain of fireflies,  dying in mid-flight,  hurtling, heralding,  upon gentle heads blow, cruel truths. Nothing lasts. Nothing lasts.  Listen to the harmony, that inaudible peal (Ong), that sets heavenly bodies to spin,  amidst everchanging kaleidoscopes of the Void’s sacred geometries, pulling, tugging at Fate, with the waxing and waning  of single points of light. Nothing lasts.  Nothing lasts. We,  the kings and…

We started it. We crashed a crunchof metal and gadgetsinto their dustno wonder they retaliatedno wonderthey killed us allin fourteen slow minutesfifteen years laterwhen our paths crossedagain. ____________________________________________________________ Mark Gilbert writes poetry and prose and in between. His work may be found in Atlas Poetica, Abyss & Apex, Narrow Road…