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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume X, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I
   Volume VIII, Issue II
   Volume IX, Issue I
   Volume IX, Issue II

 
Poetry


The Next Atlantis
Joan Payne Kincaid

 

We shall be it sinking ever so slowly
into the sea shells
twisting toward hell

That man has all the answers
how to escape the future
trying to ignore the futile.

But you notice the black leafless trees
eyes open to secure a memory
red leaves where you walk the sky
white in a colorless world.

Soma pills might work in the dental chair
no one wants to go over a grinding  apocalypse
you are in stained corduroys and no one knows why.

At the winter window you can see the next door maid
but no one is there to witness her vacuum  dance-dream
of the next million number.

It  is precipitous being here and vacuous
the ocean getting warmer
holidays irrelevant at the bottom of the sea.

 

 

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