early morning –
Low Cost flight
Tel Aviv to Sofia

I check in the hotel and walk
and walk and walk

I approach the house of my birth
and ring the bell

A rented car
we drive south east –
the Rhodopy mountain

winding road
our destination

a tiny village in the mountain

red roofs
smoking chimneys –
the forest

A rented house – a week in Levochevo.
Steep steps.
A woman opens the door, lights the fire.

Easter Sunday
I stroll in Levochevo –
narrow winding alleys

An old man approaches and stares at me.
“Please remind me, who were you?
my head forgets so many things!”
“I’m a tourist at Valkanov’s house”
“Ahhh! The Valkanov’s house, big house!”
“Yes, it’s a family reunion, we’re four generations in Valkavov’s!
“From which part of the country are you
“I’m from Sofia”
“Ahhh! Sofia! You don’t give a damn about us in Levochevo! You don’t care! The old die, the young leave! Just look around!”

I look around

“A house for sale”
cracking walls
a new drainpipe

“A house for sale”

broken window panes no door
“Yes”, I say, “I looked around”

“All the best!” he says’
“Thank you, and all the best to you too”

a friendly old but strong handshake

Freddy Ben-Arroyo



green sea foam jello is a delicacy enjoyed
by the Curtain Snappers who also enjoy
an occasional game of carpet rugby
organized by the Ministry of Picture Wizards
who partake in an ever increasing number
of typewriter joyrides while
rounding up all of the Candle Tappers
until the unbearable burden
of the enjoyment itself
comes down to
the sickening reality
of a leather lampshade.

But the fruit was so sweet . . .

silence the fig tree missing leaves

Susan Beth Furst


Blue Milk

What’s left of the Lucky Charms I mix in with a little bit of Life creating a tincture a serum a salve what-have-you that just might cure okay staunch I mean plug this feeling of being lost at sea this soupy blue milk is all I’ve got to slurp down dribble out so derelict have I become at prayers.

whiteout conditions signing my will


Peter Newton

Blue Milk