This is a July poem, but so what? It’s just barely August, so … close enough for folk music. HARBINGER by Marian Allen The locust trees are turning and it’s only July. Gold-brown, red-brown, brown, they shock the eye, dead in the green; as out…

I was telling Ruby, one of my new-ish friends, about Mildred, one of my first friends in this town. Mildred recruited me into the club of which Ruby and I are members, which is what brought Mildred into the conversation. Mildred was my best friend…

Appropriate for a Sunday. SPIRIT OF INQUIRY If God is ineffable unknowable transcendent sublime and we are forbidden to follow false gods then why do we tear selected bits from sacred books, soak them in other people’s blood, form self-portraits around our guilty fists and…

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