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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission Guidelines
Website

Stories & Essays
A Day In the Life
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By Sida Li
Eight Minutes
_ By Michael Gettings
Jesusland
_ By Max Gordon
One September Morning
_ By Brian G. Ross
Patrimony
_ By Len Joy
Reading Between the Lines
_ By Michael Gettings
Scarring Truth
_ By M.W. Hamel
Snapshots of the Ordinary
_ By Monica Lee
Spirals
_ By Robert Connal
Stars
_ By Daliso Chaponda
The Jury
_ By Jeremy Tavares
The Thief
_ By Marva Dasef
The Train to Pennsylvania
_ By C.L. Atkins

Poetry
735 Miles to Nootka Island
_ By Nicholas D. Klacsanzky
Al Fresco Cafe Poems #125
_ By Duane Locke
Al Fresco Cafe Poems #127
_ By Duane Locke
Barnstormer
_ By Lynn Strongin
Gilded Candy
_ By Mina Blue
Marriage 2
_ By Christine Redman-Waldeyer
Memo to Italy
_ By Andrew Francis
Rain, Your Words, and the Agony...
_ By Betina Evancha
Sarcasm
_ By Juliette Capra
Textbook
_ By Christine Redman-Waldeyer
The Unspoken Eloquence of the Sword
_ By Anne Nialcom
Three Shades of Grey
_ By Monica Lee
We Pay
_ By Betina Evancha
White Dread
_ By David Snyder
Writing
_ By Betina Evancha

Art & Photography
Keira Anderson
_ Photography
Anne-Julie Aubry
_ Paintings
Whitney Clegg
_ Photography and Drawings
Eman Reharno Jeman
_ Photography, Graffiti, and Drawings
Mike Pomery
_ Paintings
Jennifer Robbins-Mullin
_ Photography
Madia Krisnadi Widodo
_ Photography
Penny Wilson
_ Mixed Media and Digital Art

Al Fresco Cafe Poems #125
By Duane Locke


A lost origin, a lost geometry, a lost hegemony,
Lost alimony,

The wild bedclothes
Testified another unpardonable blunder.

The thunder that seemed
to be splinters of a rolling log
Over the bumpy pavement of clouds
Leaked its noise
On her towel-wrapped hair.

She could not tell if an old-fashioned nightshirt
Or someone's skin
Was rumpled on the white rug.

It would be foolish to dig for rotten white flags
In the mounds of her backyard,
So she could say to her self,
"It happened to others also,
Even nomads in ancient times."

She thought of her recording inside a camera
The red circles of truck headlights,
Pouring paint on a canvas,
And shaking it until chaos was exact.
The horses she sculptured had the forlornness
Of Marino Marini, although she intended
Gallant steed in elegant Japanese paraphernalia.

She thought she heard outside
The whistle of a train, but the railroad
Had abandoned a long time ago,
The rails carted off to sell for scrap metal.

Although no one was near, she heard a human voice.

The voice in a routine, banal tone, said:

"You to the right." "You to the left."
"You to the right." "You to the left."
"You to the right." "You to the left."
"You to the right." "You to the left."
"You to the left." "You to the right."
"You to the right." "You to the left."

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DUANE LOCKE has a Doctor of Philosophy degree, specializing in poetry from Donne to Marvell. During his academic career at a less-than-mediocre university where he wasted much of his life, he taught varied courses in poetry from Homer to Michael Palmer. After being forcefully evicted from his fifty year home in the Tampa crime district and slums by what he calls "The Tampa Gestapo" (city inspectors), Duane now lives by a lake populated with wild birds in Lakeland, Florida. His Tampa environment was pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, and the homeless, but now is Snowy Egrets, Wood Ibis and Wood Ducks. Duane has had over 5,000 poems published. He has also had over 276 photos published, mainly pictorials of Tampa trash and Lakeland's mystic flowers. He has also had a number of one man art shows and exhibitions of his paintings throughout Florida, and the entire Spring 2004 issue of the magazine Bitter Oleander is devoted to a 92-page interview and sixty of his poems. The book Extraordinary Interpretations by Gary Monroe has a discussion of his paintings. He is listed in Who's Who in America 2006 (Marquis).

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