Poem by Bob Bradshaw

MaybeI had never known anyonewho kept fresh oranges and bananaslounging in their smudge-free bowls.I was used to fruit sulking.Not that she couldn't be bitchy.She played tennisin white skirts and a blouse trimmedblue like her china.You know the type.But there's something to be saidfor an apartment emphasizing stripes:love seat, towels, spider plants and evenbright fish who drift for

Poem by Chris Crittenden

Rain In the Streetseverywherestripped-down gargoyles.a thirsty cubismof the grotesque.the carnage polishingthe apathy of tar.buffing a phalanxof windshield frowns.the sizzle denseas circles writhe away,boulevards of tanglesingested by iron.people shrivel to fretin a brick-laden algebra,afraid of the shapelessfreedom from the sky,reminded of their squelched pulseand the storms in