Craig

Craig unearths words in Bohemia and his backyard.
He writes and performs poetry on Route 66,
South American cafes, and Wilkes Barre YMCA.
He is a more well-behaved Jack Kerouac; passing
through with suitcases full of poems.
Be sure to ask him for a image or two.

Mark Doty

In an Austin airport,I meet him.
His blue eyes are
as kind as his poems.

He notices the sequins
in moments of dust.

This poet shops for
vintage store kimonos
and waters
fall sunflowers alive
between two
bound spines.



---Forgive me for name dropping....please...

Mischelle

Mischelle is a genuine professor who
wears 60's cat's eye glasses and
rock n' rolls in vintage clothes.
She doesn't play "academic". She
writes poems about her prairie's sweet
and sometimes bleak horizon. Rooted
in Oklahoma, she blooms in Pennsylvania.

Another Erin

On the day she left for New Orleans,the rain
collapsed on the car. There's still some dents.
During this classic black and white day, her
Grace Kelly blonde catches the wind. A heroin(e)
waves goodbye. No cue for sun.

37/365

Paul

St. Paul Of The West Side's Railroad Tracks
played left field at baseball all summer.
One afternoon, he decided a train is a constant
best friend. The speed gives the locomotive
no reason to stop. Death hits a home run
always.

36/365

Pop

My grandfather lived quiet.
Under the smile, he grieved his wife Mary.
He didn't talk loss; his brother Paul
who liked the crash of the railroad tracks.
Pop made you roast beef and mashed,
always asked: How was your day?

35/365

Helen

The American flag sat on her lap. Helen never
saw Betsy Ross stars in her coal miner sky.
Her son's shot spoke only to cruel fall leaves.
She worked at the dress factory the next day;
stitching sorrow along perfect hems.

34/365