The swarm of buzzing continues down the road. The way it hums startles the silence, stirring around the surrounding eco system. The way the cottontail’s ears twitch every second of every beat the gray fox’s paw fall onto the red sand. The lack of silence disturbs the yucca as it raises its stem high in […]


READY, AIM, SING – Steven Deutsch

Ready, Aim, Sing

My sister, Angie, thought

she’d save the world.

She grew her black hair long

and fancied herself

the next Joan Baez.

Angie was sure song

would silence the guns.

Never shy, she belted out

a steady stream

of Paxton, Prine and Collins.

It made dad smile to hear

“Farewell Angelina,”

though he couldn’t fathom the lyrics.

He tried to save the world once,

humping an M1 across France and Germany.

I used to make her crazy—

isn’t that what brothers are for,

with a refrain from Lehrer’s spoof—

Folk Song Army.

You must know it—

At sweet 16, my sister played

the pass-the-hat dives

on Bleeker Street

where drug

and protest culture collided.

Sure, she would save the world,

but wasn’t it easier if you were high?

She hit the road at 17–

four wannabes in an old Nash Rambler

heading for the summer of love.

They never made it to Haight-Ashbury—

burned so much oil crossing Kansas

it looked like they had chosen the Pope.

Dad drove out to get them—

the car tomb-silent all the way home.

I have her old Gibson 12

and pluck out a Paxton now and again.

My sister, Angie, married money—

she lives in Dallas and voted for both Bushes

while her grandson, Dylan, vows to save the world.

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Man in Nursing Home One morning man in nursing home walks out of room with robe open, genitals hanging out. Lady next door shouts Oh my goodness! Then slams her door. Man lifts genitals and says They Dead. Then walks onto elevator, janitor there gasps and man says They dead. Man walks into lobby into choral huffs […]

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2 POEMS – Daniel Schulz

Afghanistan (August 25th 2021)
Watching TV at home.

Twenty years of history
in not much more than
two days.

What happened
to the person I studied with?
The woman
who moved back to Kabul
and founded
a feminist magazine?

She has a family now.
She has a kid.

she is among the refugees,

I constantly watch my phone,
hoping it will ring,

as the old regime drives in.


When managers audit a factory,
we workers call it Hollywood.

we make all your dreams come true.

The floors are clean,
the assembly line in perfect order.
Not one thing out of place.

No cursing: perfect discipline.
Everything in perfect shape.

Then the manager
goes out the door
and everything
just dissipates.

We have a tight schedule.
Don’t you understand?

Everything follows this principle.

An increase in production.
Supply and demand.

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Prior to Departure

The old man

opens the

airport bar

at 5 am.

He wipes down the bar stools,

chops lemons and limes,

completes his morning inventory.


He subsequently directs his attention

to a television screen

behind the bar.


He is not particularly

interested in sports highlights

but what are his options?


Monitor the departure board?


He has witnessed enough



Grave Marker


I notice one,

covered with dirt

and leaves                                                                                                                      

which I brush

aside with my shoe:



it reads,




No date of birth,

no end date,

no first name

nor last name . . .







Something Like Living


Get home

unload the groceries

take a crap

pour a drink

check on the kids

kiss a spouse

answer a phone.


Prep dinner

eat dinner



Pay a bill.


Sell a car

buy a newspaper.


Watch The Bachelor.


Bury a hamster.











Attend a wedding.


Book a plot.


Edward Anki’s poetry has appeared in The Feathertale Review(parenthetical)QwertyThe Chaffin Journal,and others. A chapbook of his poetry, Remote Life, was published by BareBackPress. 

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