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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, 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

 
Poetry


from Apparition Poems: 217
Adam Fieled

 

The crux of the problem is this,
he told the lobbyist, if this is to
be a nation of hobos we'd at
least like the dignity of a fair
burial. The lobbyist burst into
tears at the mention of death.
Outside, Washington was too
hot. If it was too hot inside too,
many of us felt that America into
India was a bit much to take in
this lifetime, where we've all
worked so hard not to have to
shit in the street. That lobbyist
was a dog, alright, a well-fed one,
and his collar is up in the air.

 

 

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