by Jefferson Navicky

He worked as a young man in the medallions collection of the National Library, and published scholarly articles on nuministics. Somewhat later in life, more destitute and living in the provinces, he married a younger actress.  After a few good years, she said, “God, please breathe on me,” and watched the rain write autumn on the window.  In a year, she died of pneumonia.  He returned to Paris to again work in the National Library, the memory of her love clinging to his skin.  He shaved with a thick cream, a beaver brush, and a straight razor.  He cut his face in sadness.  His nights were unemployed, stars and rivers, a fear of a hernia.  The Library as Memory.  People come and go.  Your eyes are lonely.  He met Francesca in special collections.  They married in 1946.  She cared for him.  He became slightly sadder, and began to lose his sight. He died as they made love on a cold April evening, their naked spines in the moonlight moving quickly and delicately through the unreal city.

by Michael Estabrook

Things are about the same
here, same as always, snowy out
another boring lunch.

Did you know that King Arthur
(of the Round Table and all that)
was real and died in 538?

Simply trying to imagine
538
so vague and dark.

Tons of rubbish written
about the Arthurian Legends.
Try finding the historical Jesus.

Albert Schweitzer tried and failed.
But questing after the historical Arthur
could prove fruitful.

The big problem is having to learn
all those archaic languages: Saxon, Anglo,
Celtic, Kentish, Pictish, Jutish, Cumbric, Irish.

Welsh too, don’t forget Welsh.
Forget it.  Just getting modern English
down has kept me occupied for decades.

No, no Arthur for me.
Besides I gotta go make myself
a sandwich or something.

by Michael Estabrook

On the beach he surreptitiously snaps sultry photos
of a long-haired Latina
stretched out on a blanket sipping
a cool beverage from a sweating can
with his telephoto lens.
Later he emails a couple to his buddy George
who he grew up with
a half-century earlier.
When George responded with
“what kind of camera do you have?”
he knew they were now officially old men.

by Gerald Locklin

Kim Jung Un III,
Ruler of North Korea,
Might have shown a little leniency
To the cyber-circuits of SONY

If he hadn’t found
The Interview
As big a waste of his time
As did those millions of Americans
Who never, among them, uttered
A single giggle.