MELTING STARS

Coronal mass ejections unseen and unheard provide complimentary x-rays for all on this blessed beach. Radio waves tune to an alternate frequency, while technicians succumb to the undertow of neutrons. Bacon sizzles in the fire pit. A line of solar flares lead the way for all walkers and wayward souls…

passing through us
into a soft matrix
devoid of activity

Gary Hittmeyer

MELTING STARS

RECIPES

red bird
frantic at the pane . . .
pandemic

ANTI-VIRAL DANDELION SOUP:
–Dandelion greens, thoroughly washed
–1-2 cloves fresh garlic
–1 tablespoon finely diced fresh ginger
–Soup base, stock, or bullion (to taste)
Instructions: Bring to a boil; then turn down heat and simmer for about 15 minutes. Note: Don’t spray your lawns to remove dandelions. Dandelions are medicine! We dump enough toxic substances into the environment. Give your lawns, bees, and stray cats a break!

ANTI-VIRAL NO BAKE COOKIES:
–1 cup raw* honey (anti-viral)
–½ cup coconut oil (anti-viral)
–½ cup cocoa powder (antioxidants)
–1 cup nut butter of choice (nut butter + oats = a complete protein)
–3 cups quick oats (nut butter + oats = a complete protein)
–1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Instructions: Mix wet ingredients. Mix in oats. Spoon into cookie shapes and chill until hardened. *Raw honey has medicinal properties heated honey may lack. Note: Don’t feed babies under 1-year of age honey. Their digestive systems are underdeveloped, and it may kill them!

forsythia buds . . .
how quiet the town
after shutdown

Anna Cates

RECIPES

Life in a Washing Machine

Wrapped around your finger, like a towel around an agitator. Lost my glasses in the dishwasher looking for you. The blow-dryer went out with a bang and now my hair has powder burns. The dining room light is out and I can’t see what I am eating. Tastes like sawdust anyway.

belching and smoking
with a purpose…
chimney sweep

The traffic light said GO; smash! The insurance company raised my rates to see if I bleed. All this from a fortune-teller who asked me how I was going to get home. Found my toupee in the lint trap. You never liked it anyway. If only I could borrow enough money to live like a lottery winner, there would be more cheese in the fridge. Our dirty laundry is on the clothesline. When will the cows come home? All I know is if you add detergent, and put quarters in the slot, I’ll spin like a top with bubbles until the laundry mat is closed.

Kama Sutra Blues…
Maytag hiring
for all positions

Richard Grahn

Life in a Washing Machine

Quarantined

What if you could paint your own sky? Would it be a Pollock-inspired painting in primary colours? Define the outer edges. Of course, it’s all-over. Slice a piece out and recombine with other favourites from time to time. Heck, paint it black at noon.

invisible clouds…
the rationing
of sunshine

Shloka Shankar

Quarantined

Sharpshooter

Protocol dictated a button be pushed.

An impressive male, he was to father generations

of Silverbacks until the small boy

dropped himself like a hand grenade.

The great ape flung him giddily about

like a plaything oblivious to the countdown.

Like a ticket home.

Shakespearean
the play within the play
death by cop

Peter Newton

Sharpshooter

inpatient

Another six hours have passed. The nurse comes back with a new bag to hang up on the IV stand. She reconnects the cannula and a cold liquid invades unsuspecting veins. An alien invasion of personal space. A metallic taste. It doesn’t feel the same as last time.

fear of needles
finding a new bravado
in daydreams

Twenty minutes later. A different nurse. The bag is empty, and things are not what they were the last time, or the time before. That cold liquid felt mercury-like. It’s triggered a transformation, like Neo had, after swallowing the red pill. A perfusion of internal organs has caused irrevocable change. Flesh is now mimetic polyalloy. Will it affect consciousness? Maybe an updated imagination could create any personality it wants. Such power, such possibilities, yet still an overwhelming urge to sleep.

dry veins drifter
looking to hitch a ride
on a new nightmare

David J. Kelly

inpatient

cul de sac

Winter’s cloak is tattered rags. The white counterpane wore away so quickly. All that’s left are isolated patches of moraine-encrusted glacier. Walking home, late at night, there’s a sense of suspended animation. Somehow this freezing space is freezing time. Still, incontestable imperatives propel the body onwards, comet-like, through cold emptiness, to describe another eccentric orbit.

castaway
watching Noah’s ark
crest the horizon

David J. Kelly

cul de sac