the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

in my dreams i never wake up before i hit the ground. i always hit the ground and then see myself through until after the autopsy. odd.

by Roger Mugs

visions of clean pillows
stacked behind me so should
i fall
it arches perfectly back
spine, shoulders, neck, and head
to the soft landing
my dreams keep leaving out

by Julio Chapluzki

Is it the osh
or the dissapointment
bubling and gurgling,
stirring within
threatening to come up?
And I hope the osh will
because perhaps in that
meaningless action
I can show my solidarity
in a meaningful way.

With my apologies for my long absences from the sieve

by Julio Chapluzki

I keep coming and going,
entering and exiting,
writing and avoiding,
wondering who’s to blame
besides my own priorities.

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