by Warren Gaston | Oct 20, 2020
He woke in the morning with ash on his face. “What happened last night,” he asked his wife. “Did the house burn down?” “No,” she answered. “The world is on fire.”
by Warren Gaston | Oct 17, 2020
Here’s the situation: -the scab has been ripped off wounding white racism, -the Gulf Coast is ravaged by hot ocean hurricanes, -the parched forests of California are fevered with fire, -covid-19 is ravaging the planet cough by cough, -right-winged militias have sensed...
by Warren Gaston | Oct 12, 2020
*HINT: This poem is not about shoes. My shoes no longer trust my feet to guide their lives. They crave autonomy from my ambulatory mind. In the beginning, they were quite content to be tied to my body by the strings of will threaded through the eyelets of convenience....
by Warren Gaston | Oct 8, 2020
The second to last time I saw a living fly, the fly was on my neighbor’s cat. The cat was dead.
by Warren Gaston | Oct 3, 2020
In his hands he held two small stars, hatchlings fallen from the nest of sky. His palms burned with stellar storge*. He thought himself lucky. How often do you get to comfort what you love? He himself had been lost once in a strange land. At night he released them...
