Dolls: A Nice Little House

Peter draws a skinny little boy named Tony and puts him in a cell.

Tony is more like his Mother than his Father.

Tony is more like his Mother than his self.

A doll’s eye fades to black.

Tony’s cell is really a nice little house in a forest of pink trees.

These things sometimes happen:

A garden of morning glories never opens.

A dead bee stabs the sole of your foot.

A giant toad leaps on your chest at midnight:

all the months of August in a row.

Rob Goldstein 1985-2019

Diana’s February Story: The Elephant Child

from D. Wallace Peach

Myths of the Mirror

Pixabay image by Marianne Sopala

I actually recorded this if you want to listen along.

The Elephant Child

by D. Wallace Peach

An elephant child, carefree and wild
Walked into the wintry woods
He followed fox tails and jackrabbit trails
Ignoring his mother’s “shoulds”

Of course, he got lost and chilled by the frost
As night began to fall
To his rump he sunk and tooted his trunk
But no one answered his call

Oh, that cold night, to the elephant fright
The clouds began to snow
He sniffled and shivered, shook and quivered
His nose he needed to blow

The blizzard swirled and snowflakes twirled
He plodded on wobbly knees
His head grew stuffy, the snow so fluffy
He blew out a honking sneeze

Losing hope, he started to mope
When in an evergreen tree
He spied a house, just right for a mouse
And he let go a…

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Dolls: He Calls the Hotline

Bobby has clearly had it.

He calls the hotline:

Bobby: I’m so depressed I don’t know what to do;

Bob: Sounds like you’re feeling depressed.

Bobby: Yeah. I think I’m gonna kill myself.

Bob: Sounds like you’re thinking of suicide.

Bobby: Yeah–My dick fell off in the shower.

Bob:  Sounds like you need to watch what you eat.

–Click buzz—

Bobby is a gash in the arm of God, lost as he segues
to a regrettable death.

“Try not to think about it,” says Bob, “It’s in Robs hands now.”

Rob Goldstein 1985-2019

 

 

 

Glimpsing…

from Stuart France

Stuart France

*

From the corner

of my eye…

Through a keyhole…

half seen

unheard

Beneath the door…

Behind a crack in the curtains

A shiver of tree leaf

gurgling-silver over brook-stone.

Musical spheres

The beat of wings on high

fractals of sun shimmer.

Moonshine in stone

Soil sparkle

Gem loam

Song under foot…

Flashes and snippets and shade between formless shape.

Part intruder

Part guest

Host of no-where and no-when

Never here always there…

but still

Glimpsing.

*

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