I believe it is the act of language that makes everything that we are as human beings a possibility. I believe that in its ideal state Poetry is the purest form of that act. As I understand it, my job as editor/publisher is to find, promote, package and distribute poetry that comes as close as possible to the ideal. ~~~~~Ben L. Hiatt, Editor Digital Dawg


Jim Chandler

I want to die on a cold day

the smoke of my bones
sullying a leaden sky
my soul clinging fast

to the wheels
of heaven

groaning over stars
seen from the
light reversed

black holes
whirring like saucers
in a b-movie

riding the tunnel
of light through
a prism bent in
shades of gray

diffused melodic
dispersal of

shotgun approach
to universal nothing

boom scatter
boom scatter scatter

a silent rock band
of negative matter
windmill on strings
of rays

solar wind tooting
the horn of

it's like jazz in
the void

yeah jazz in the void

all that noise
and nothing

Go to Jim's website to see more of his excellent work.
Jim Chandler's book
is available on-line from
Mt Aukum Press

Ann Menebroker

After The Fact
for V.W.

She was a quiet sort of girl
mighty rivers of contention running through
her young frame, going in their own direction
except she wasn't the captain of her boat
as yet; and as she stood, receiving
the blows from her mother, holding back
tears like a benediction of survival
she didn't think she'd ever grow up
and escape. But she did. Now the doctor
says she has to have part of her collar bone
sawed off to stop the pain, maybe pain
that reached back to those long years
when a girl refused to cry.

Pick-N-Pull It
Boneyard of Memories

parts too old to replace
so go to the cemetery
of thrown-out pieces
but bring your own tools
to get them loose
and pay the small price
of keeping things
beyond their survival date.

Something Might Happen

She's wearing a Tuesday mask
even though the calendar says Friday.
This is where math and poetry
break up, stop giving easy answers.
The value of truth becomes
fries and milk shakes.
Spring hats and snow
falling in the mountains. What's left
to trust? A man drinking a cold
beer trips over mid-afternoon.
She catches him in her arms
by the clock's midnight chime.
She's been looking for affection
all year. He's just been thirsty.
She steadies him into Wednesday
and lets go. The universe nods.

-Ann Menebroker
(reprinted from a broadside out of
Bottle of Smoke Press, 2004)

Ann Menebroker's book
may be purchased on-line at
The Mt Aukum Press Bookstore