Every sunflower is not a potential sun seeker here. Directionless they look to the west, south and even north when there is a patch of sunlight or just an inkling of a sunray through those passing clouds. Looking at the sky, he grumbles again of infertile clouds not staying to mate on his half acre field
gunshot
a sudden lull
in the egg songs
R. Suresh babu
warm up
angle of isosceles
at my hip
Oh, there I go again, messing up the arms. One going left when it’s supposed to be right. Every. Damn. Time. Lefthander’s curse? Never mind that. Focus on what the instructor said: three dégagés, two piqués, and a plié with port de bras, then forward cambré and back. I can do this. No, really, I can.
first notes
my mind pirouettes
across the floor
Lynn Wohlwend
My mother mends my wounds with a needle as sharp as her tongue. Then smooths her stitches with a gentle touch.
Sitting in his broken chair, my father nods his approval. He lights another cigar.
A sparrow begins to sing a lullaby. The sky darkens. So dark we can’t imagine morning appearing.
As we go to sleep, smoke from the fire curls up the chimney and writes the word, ‘Alas’ in the sky.
the man
no longer a child–
leaves the nest
Lafcadio
Sunset strip more fit for New York, window shopping for a training montage: meat hooks set deeply far as the eye can see stretch out to horizon, vanishing point. Turning flesh, sides of cow dangle, swing, swish, marked down to move — before expiration hits. Five minutes to midnight, Uber a carriage back to pushing broom?
claim you cannot read
anything in dreams,
even writings on the wall
Jerome Berglund
Long story short I can’t play chess because I think a draw is a win. I don’t care that I can’t win, only that you can’t.
c(rook)ed moon dangling gerunds
Susan Burch
This morning I farted in Sensōji. I turned and pointed to an old woman fumbling with prayer beads next to me and saw throughout the temple men and women pointing at a person near to them.
temple bell rumbling in my gut
Bob Lucky
Recently I was sitting on the toilet waiting patiently for nature to takes its course when I realized that I was making hand shadows on the floor. I forgot about nature and studied the brightness and placement of the lights. I recalled that I used to do this as a child. When I abandoned hand shadow puppetry, and for what, I can’t remember. Subsequently, I’ve learned that lighting, properly exploited, can enhance many things.
Bob Lucky
The Other Bunny will take time out for a quiet celebration and contemplation of the Word becoming flesh. Publication will resume January 8 2024.
Same link, same picture every time, all grainblurr and smudge swipes. A long time ago in the 90s–oof, try to ignore that part but the figure all grunge hang and parted bangs bursting the woods in the pic won’t leave you at night. Always someone’s cousin, but no they don’t live around here anymore. Ask three people what’s chasing him, get five answers. 2 a. m. and your brother forgets the time difference and wants to know which cryptids you think are really spirits, which would explain why nobody’s caught any of them of course. Lack of data leads to bit rot. Copypasta boils in the airwaves between bro country hits on KLAW 101. Library microfiche a dry lakebed, mud-mouthed corpses drained from Deep Red Creek. Now the story goes full Bloody Mary: If you turn off all the lights and open the picture on your phone he’ll show up behind you. You ask your brother if he remembers woodsy.jpeg. Oh yeah, he says, that’s me. You both know he’s too young, but then you remember the time he followed the dog into a neighbor’s woods, how they found him in their yard with a big stick “for the beasts.” Whoever’s trying to run out of that picture, maybe the beasts found him instead. Maybe he made it home, a flat half-empty can of Surge on the floor next to his bed. I don’t know who burned what sigil into our backwoods alone, but don’t forget to subscribe and thanks for watching.
Seth Copeland
In the translation of the story of my life, I’m the hero. I kill the monster and marry the beautiful princess. The people love me. When I walk down the streets it’s like treading through a fragrant swamp of rose petals, and the cheering is deafening. But here at home old ladies push me off the bus and my neighbor’s lawn clippings carpet my sidewalk. After I take the garbage out and bury the dog, I’m moving to a country where no one takes me literally.
Bob Lucky
the other bunny 