Richard King Perkins II
A newfound anti-algorithm will either bring us together
or prevent us from ever meeting.
We are muted orange and neither of us
is to be believed; burdened by deniers that our mutual vision
somehow extends across solder shades and antimony countryside.
My mouth … view
The fire ants were the first to know.
Grain by grain
they stacked their hills
five feet high.
Deep reds and brown.
Towering over my head.
But no one seemed to notice them.
We packed our belongings,
And moved them to … view
Hester L. Furey
At the train station a small sting on the face
only a month back would have sent her
into panic, guilt, and shame.
Today she rubs it and forgets.
The sensation is the same.
No narrative freight now,
milky crust around the window frame.
Salt wing-trail in early light.
Salt to smooth the bumps
burned onto the iron’s soleplate,
to hold silk flowers in place,
line the threshold,
wake the cat from it’s curling sleep.
Salt sprinkled … view
Mortar and Pestle
with the stone fist pound
bleed the green release
camphor to air the sap of life
breathe it brighter than leaves
add olive oil to embalm
In a cabinet
under the kitchen sink
in a … view
Unknown to most
and perhaps beyond our ken
Billions of beings do their work
in the world beneath our feet
Our nourishment depends
on these tiny ones
whom we value little
and respect even less
Yet the soil food web thrives on our waste
there are stories in the dirt.
everything which has ever drawn breath whispers its echoing aches
and ecstasy back to the dirt.
the more you break your fingernails. sift and dig, my eyelashes spellthewords,“I am still here.”
on ribs nsibidi rising on smoke tendrils,
It lay squirming, the coil of steel that had bound
the pages of his notebook, twisted off
in a neurotic moment. Not a center-fleeing
or center-seeking spiral, but a transparent conduit,
its ends crimped in warning
against past and future turning. The world of … view
Just to scrape the resin
of thoughts long since distilled in stale jars
coated and re-coated with soot in a room white with ash,
he fornicates. Fluids exchange,
synapse to synapse, neuron to neuron,
cycling the same chemicals, threading the rhythm towards
Hester L. Furey
Home from the mycelium wars,
I strip, bathe, wash every conceivable surface.
My life fits between the washer and the dryer.
I know I can’t go on like this.
When plants (and maybe animals – that is my theory)
begin to die, … view