The fist of God smashes
down on the ‘nine,
grinds out the butt-end of his anger
sends everyone scattering,
searching pockets, the beneath chair cushions,
dashboard ashtrays and the saucer
that sits a top the chest of drawers

Those (more…)

By Jason Vaughn and W.E. Leathem

I. Midpoint 

After three years away from Kansas, I am sitting in my old merciful green chair in the living room of a temporary “home” in a sleepy neighborhood in Basehor, an orange (more…)