by Neeli Cherkovski

Bright morning doves
Come to the tree around 9 AM
When I brew a second coffee
Always two of them pink pale
I observe from the kitchen window
What is now seen as
An early sign of mass destruction

Two bright doves
From the conservatory
Rare in my yard, one owns
A French horn, the other
Is devoted to her violin
Together they play

Bright doves
The leaves Matisse green
So much to atone for,
None of our roads
Lead home, there will be
Fire water earth air
Bright ashes, oblivion

by Neeli Cherkovski

Shadows in the garden
Increase not lot,
Danger lurks, ribbons
Flow down
From under my cerebral
Field, a stone
Buddha manufactured
In Minnesota bemused
The tall bamboo, be of
One mindful rap
On doors and
Windows, on memory
Loss and
A chain of command,
Oh brave seabirds
And double
Windows, on lock and
Key
oh father
Deliver me one more time
To uncertain
Daylight, design a sun
For late
Afternoon
May the ribboned air
Bring tranquility to
The forms, may
A handsome set
Of trees speak for
The broad Swan song
Of our lives

by Catfish McDaris

     Of all that is written I only love what is
     written in blood.
                                 Nietzsche

Surrounded by dead guardian angels
listening to: The Mephistopheles of
Los Angeles by Marilyn Manson

Warming hands and face above a hell
fire in a 55–gallon barrel dreaming of
dancing with a senorita in Guadalajara

Palm trees figs and dates in Damascus
driving Thunderbirds through a sequoia
and zebras and swallowtails in the Mojave

Shackled by my years, gravity sucking
my energy, the sky, and ceilings piss
on my head, the walls yawn in boredom,

Nobody laughs at the ugly mirror, guns
mean noise and chaos, death should be up
close and personal with a lovely serenade.

by Catfish McDaris

More damn snow than a sane man can endure,
I’d never quite passed the sanity test, I’d been
living and dreaming in the badlands, riding the
rails, catching odd jobs now and then, trying to

Forget my sadness and agony, my soul felt gored
like a bull, drenched in blood, waiting for relief,
I missed the New Mexican dancing Memameior,
and the loco Huachiqueleros, Mexican gas thieves

Gas was like gold in Mexico, it wasn’t siphoned,
the thieves used plastic saddle bags over their
shoulders and cut holes into gas pipes, it flooded
all over them while filling the bags, ten or more

People waiting for their turn, the least spark would
have blown them sky high, the last bag man had pipe
tape, it slowed the gushing pipe down, I sort of liked
the danger, but I went to Aguascalientes, April was

Three weeks of bullfighting, there were hot springs,
vineyards, the infamous National Museum of Death,
my amigo, Saturnino had invited me for a month, so
I took him up on his offer, his life was a bit rich for me.