Denis Emorine


As a backdrop
there would be scars of war on the curtains of time,
the indifference of men,
the impure truth of arms leveled at anything that moves,
the din of life that rebels at every moment.
in vain,
in vain ...

Your voice powerless to avert the words of war
the raucousness of the moment.

I want words
to KILL the


They appeared at daybreak. In their eyes the earth could be seen opening up and the fire dancing on the dead. They did not look anyone in the face and especially not the child who vanished at their approach. They were silent before innocence because they had devastated it just as they wished. When you raised your finger to the sky they turned their eyes away while clutching their weapons. No one knew where they came from nor where they were going. They would have liked to tuck themselves away in the hollow of the earth but that space was already taken by the dead.

They passed through the village without a backward glance. Oblivion was their only certainty but I am not sure they found it.

Even under the ashes.

Little by little they unlearned the heartbeats of the day.


Horizon overcast
body scattered in the fog of sights
no more life, they say

Killing as a habit
from boredom
or lassitude
by the supreme authority
Finally to know
that God does not exist


In the smoky fumes of exile
they sometimes sketched a gesture
towards the other
but the horror that they read
on that face
that is THEIR OWN
So impossible to embrace
the one who was so like them
that brother who is dying
under the blows
that they count mechanically
the other


"my" god

I would like to strangle you with my bare hands
to prevent you from causing more harm
sighs the soldier free at last
after the daily murders

His weapon lies at his feet

blushing at the crimes
past and to come
it purrs gently

translated from the French by Brian Cole

Neila Mezynski

Yountville, Ca.


Jeanne was a forlorn young woman with gentle brown curls.
Large eyes, skin of soft and white.
A soulful creature somewhat lost in appearance, exuding a tenderness.
Strolling the streets aimlessly, nervous and unsure.
Into a shop for soothing’s sake and stopping the need to run.
The shop keeper made banter until Jeanne could escape.
An unsocial girl, she couldn’t stay long.
Back in her safe room with her lost father downstairs, she went to her top drawer and withdrew the object sharp and silver.
Sitting in her flowered chair in Indian style, pausing only a second, she drew the razor tenderly yet surely across her alabaster thigh.
Red drops appeared. Then the other leg for symmetries’ sake.
The sharp pain was quiet, soothing to Jeanne.


Bill Spence had a hard time remembering himself anymore since Sally died.
Missing, so much missing.
He went to her closet when the house was quiet. He stood there inhaling the warm scent of her still remembering clothes.
Letting the softness drape over him, lay on him, be on him,
in the quiet secrecy of the house.
Dressed in Sally.


Muriel wanted Tom.
Tom was different and Muriel was getting different.
Hard to compete with those on the make broads dressed in colorful curls, watery grins and carefully chosen movements in all day planning.
She went to Tom and asked him to come home with her.
“Okay”, he said.


Blanche was 60.
Harsh for a belle.
Colorful paper and strewn about ribbons on a table laid with expectations.
A darkened room, a birthday party.
No children’s laughter.
Blanche’s high held ribs, hollow sound.


A too tight countenance with hair pinned back, school marm glasses.
Too many exposed legs and breasts and booze.
Held together by pins and wires,
he stood in front of her small house.
He knocked softly,
“are you sure?”
Quiet closed the door.


“ Maudie, I’m going to join up now, “said young Tim.
“I’ve made up my mind, I’m goin’.”
Can’t compete with the romance of war and do the right thing sort of baloney.
Tim being a serious sort of boy would take kindly to that romantic stuff.
“Timmy come here one more time.”
She watched him walk down the dusty road, jaunty like.


Beautiful Bruce with his Dick Tracy kind of looks lay in his waiting bed.
His white shock of hair gave him an angelic quality hiding his once powerful physique behind a white sheet and gown.
Precious memories give a kind of translucent glow as he waits the long wait.

Kyle Hemmings

Lydia Wants Us to Play Today

The winter hinted at carcasses
rustling under our feet;
snow-blind, we invented new games
in the parlor: Skin the Moose,
Pollyanna Pucker, Shake Antler Fake,
Scat Treason, Rag and Smack-down.
The hearth sparkled
but gave off little heat.
Outside, the sheen
from the frozen river
invited the weakest of us.
Tea cups.
Hunters Beware.