Contributed By: David Macey, Martial
Rome lauds, loves, and sings my little books.
I am in every pocket, every hand.
Behold: she blushes, pales, dazes, yawns, looks
sick. That’s what I want! Now I’m my own fan.
Laudat, amat, cantat nostros mea Roma libellos,
meque sinus omnes, me manus omnis habet.
Ecce rubet quidam, pallet, stupet, oscitat, odit.
Hoc volo: nunc nobis carmina nostra placent.
Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
Among the rich, anger’s no rarity: hatred comes cheaper than charity. Genus, Aucte, lucri divites habent iram: odisse quam donare vilius constat. Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
“He reeks of last night’s wine!” That’s off the mark. He drinks until dawn clarifies the dark. Hesterno fetere mero qui credit Acerram, fallitur: in lucem semper Acerra bibit. Return to table…
In Prisov, not far from Košice, a shul or rather an exhibit of itself restored, except of course for its congregation, is open for tourists to visit and inspect. On a wall are photographs of…
I’ll remember you too clearly . . . There was the college room of it: a fishnet on the walls and ceiling above a single bed. A turntable on bookshelves of stacked cinderblock and pine…
I am writing of the morning of fair dreams,
of the dancing of your hands; those beautiful
lithe hands that hoist before the new morning…
Who sent the scissors, the gigantic scissors to my feet? They open and close with a bone-chilling screech. I guess, in place of ankles I have balloons. Instead of being subdued, no doubt, I’m going to cut myself down, I’m going to overturn the streets and city squares. Perhaps this is a means of sleeping. […]
* With the bedrock it needs though this city was built on rainwater :shards pieced together the way pots imbedded in ancient dirt let these dead drink by steps from stone scented with curtains still damp except for evenings lowered by hand into the last drop and foothold –pole to pole is what the graves […]
