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The Beast
Michael Dority

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold…”
William Butler Yeats

Do you remember when you hit puberty? I was 11 or 12. Both of my BMFs and I were straight, and that hasn’t changed. But for a brief time, that didn’t matter.

We’d lie out on the two beds in my room and dare each other to pull our shorts off.

It didn’t happen, but we had fun trying. Not for long, though. I think one of the other two told his mother, and the horseplay was immediately curtailed. No more sleepovers.

It’s human nature, I guess. Boys and young men are homophobic. We lack the self-confidence to know and embrace who and what we are. Straight and gay alike. It’s a real mess.

Now, the social stigma has eased up. More accurately, it’s shifted focus from gays and lesbians to the smaller transgender community. Now they’re the primary targets of hate crimes. Suddenly, they’re in the crosshairs of violent attacks and homicides. Not to mention the extreme Right and other purveyors of, but not adherents to, moral rectitude. Yes, the tongue-waggers and bible-thumpers. The naysayers and judgers of what’s not their business in the first place. The gossip-mongers, thieves and liars.

Have you noticed the recent uptick in domestic terrorism? This isn’t about religion. Oh, no. It’s about rage. Black rage, white rage. Mindless hate. Gaping rends in the fabric of the social order.

Have you not recognized Yeats’ beast as it slouches towards Bethlehem? Have you heard its guttural roar?

…Tell me true, have you?

© 2021 Michael Dority

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Radix Apokálypsis
Anthea Snow Mathews

I am a radical apocalypse
a radix apokálypsis
the apotheosis of apocryphal
notions of being an ocean
a tide of turning pages
that looks in
I look into you
and see the radical
the radix
the root
how my micelia
weaves into your veins
exposung both our pain
as a tide returning in
7 and 12
purple-gold luck favours
the bold
but my past afinity for green
warns of apocalypse
apokálypsis
an elipsis
in the pages of our story
the revilation of observations
made in suffering
I release myself of mooring
and capsize my laviathan
to reveal golden turtles in my wake
and they tumble under the tow
of so many dead words
words you kill in fear and pain

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Bones, Ah, Bones
Christopher T. Dabrowski

Rex said Bark sometimes envies his owner being a palaeontologist.
- You probably have a lot of bones to chew on - he mused.
- Well, it's not like that. These are all fossilized. But your archaeologist certainly collects normal bones.
- Unfortunately - sighed Rex. - They’re old, hundreds or thousands of years old.
- Well, it's like wine, only good vintages - rejoiced Bark.
- You could choke.
- How about finding a graveyard hyena for a new owner? - Bark didn't let go.
- I have a better idea. Ozzy lives two blocks away. He invited me to bone-biting. But there is one downside. His human screams terribly, then...

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