Richard Weaver

The Monkey of Anger   does more than fling poo. Sure, he’s a master craftsman and dead shot, able to fling without being seen,   and disappear after the deed is done. And he is careful to point a finger towards the pack, and wag it suggestively.   The monkey of anger is a connoisseur of dung, a fierce, biting …

Merridawn Duckler

Girl of the Lower Forty-Eight   Burying my nose in the old sweatshirt smell again the lonely armpit of afternoon bar where whisky and I fought for the attention of that New York woman; soaked in her aroma of clean reason prim, drunk, authoritarian, alert, erect as I waved the prism of my glass to over-state: we’re the minority here, …

Donna Davis

Department Store Mannequins   . . . look terminally serious, lips pursed, mouths pouting slightly with corners turned inward. They seldom smile or display the smallest pleasure, even when meticulously dressed in the most sublime couture. One hand is on the tilted hip to show off the flow of fabric; cheekbones flat and thin without the fleshy apples that tempt …

Now, Then

I’m fifty years ago, at a party, drinking a martini and smoking a cigarette.  I’m wearing my suit and tie and idly listening to little pieces of three different conversations.  Wasn’t West Side Story a wonderful movie?  How about the new president and his promise to have a man on the moon by decade’s end?  Is there going to be …