I've had enough of living
I've had enough of dying
I've had enough of smiling
I've had enough of crying


Esther Bubley, City Cafe, Tomball, Texas, May 1945

Only Rare Things Create
-- by Jack Micheline

When love creates
When tenderness creates
It is the greatest of all sounds
When man and woman creates a baby is born
When fear creates anger is born
When loneliness creates despair is born
When business creates hype is born
When newspapers create politicians are born
When art galleries create money is born
Cemeteries don’t create
Museums don’t create
Hospitals don’t create
Prisons don’t create
Power don’t create
Only love creates
and it is the rarest thing of all


Breakfast in My Twenties
-- by Jason Tandon

I'd brew coffee from a can of TV blend,
pull my radio from the wall as far
as it could go, and tune in blues or strings
with luck, that luminous refrain and echo.
Crawl onto my roof, light a smoke and sit
for five or ten to watch a violet cannon or
a carpet gray unroll, while Baba prepared
for the lunch rush in his deli below.
Grilled tahini chicken, falafel and kebob,
I'd bury my nose in my clothes—
O smoke that poured from the vent!
My lungs breathed blood, raw, fresh, my teeth gleamed white.
I could've run five miles each day,
but there was too much to do and see at night.


On Gravity and Breasts
-- by Amy Templeton Buckley

Sometimes the world spins too fast for me,
then I look up and remember
that we’re really not moving at all (not really).
And my oldest friend is having a baby
(which is more proof of the above).
A boy. She knew it all along,
and they’re easier to travel with, she informs me—
rough and tumble, you know
(she’s afraid she’d warp a girl).
She had a dream last night that her breasts
were spurting water everywhere
and no one could figure out how to shut them off.
She says she’s afraid of her body now—
afraid of her breasts becoming appliances.