I listen to the tune
of rust growing on the bridge.
My jig breaks stones,
my dance expands the earth
breathing, heaving, turning.

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song of the bridge
J.G. Smith

a lost soul preaching sin
fear, loss, his placard
homemade proclamations
the crowd surrounds him
jeering, he exhorts them

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Man, Bird, Man
Emily Strauss

Keep calling me that, you sunken asshole
It was all too tragic though, the pull of
a walk, rambling musings through grassy knoll,
and readying the marathon above


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Memory Sonnet
J.G. Smith

In darkest gloom
of late night,
the idea of dawn
is born.

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It Came to Me
Catherine Cronin

We woke the river
with our laughter.
It ran away,
decayed and dried.
In its wake

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river
J.G. Smith

I run my fingertips down its spine
Open up its heart and smell the musty odour
Its dirty dust jacket fingered and thumbed
Countless times
And the tops of its paper turning piss yellow

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Montana 1948
Woody Holmes

We the pigeons of circular flight
circumvent our escape route
for cages rule us
in to returning
back to

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The Pigeons
Woody Holmes

I saw a dead bird outside of the restaurant. The ants had picked the skin and meat off the head, leaving the rest of the body intact. I looked at the bird for a couple minutes.
I did not know how it died, or how long it had been there, lying dead on the concrete. The trail of the ants could be traced going back into the grass, where the clumps of blades created a forest. I left after two minutes.


-A bird soared over

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66. DEADBIRD.JPG
J.G. Smith

Black and white, day and night
I don't know which time I like anymore
Rain when done, moonlight fun
Lost myself forevermore


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I Don't Even Know Anymore
Sarah Davis