Exterminating Angel Press

Creative Solutions for Practical Idealists.

poem

Grandeval.

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by Cliff Beck.

When the Hittites took Babylon I was not there
nor did I fight in Iraq for Bush and Blair.
I refused the cross, was never on crusade
and bought no penance, yet still paid all my dues.
I wasn’t seen when the great witch hunts were made
and was never one to name, shame and accuse.
I didn’t demonstrate nor join the Red Brigade
and served no flag, keeping independent views.
I had no facebook page, avoided digital rage,
felt no need to twitter, but privately recused.

Empires rise, silver bullets are forged,
causes fail, truths are ignored
as generations come and go
each chanting a new credo
sincerely, hearts aflame,
unaware the world remains the same.

I read widely of our history
but failed to solve the mystery.
I planted many tree clad hills
but most were shorn for greedy mills.
I wandered far and wide
to see the other side.
I walked through glass clad halls,
heard many clarion calls
summoning the faithful
to do their duty and share the booty.
I met with countless men in black
learning that they hunt in packs
and expropriate the best intentions
to support their toxic interventions.

But then I stood to one side,
luggage left on the carousel
and with the zeitgeist defied
said farewell, went into my shell.
In quiet anonymity
I found a benign liberty
where the world overlooked me.

I sowed a few seeds,
tended them with care
and removed the weeds.
I lobbed pebbles into ponds
and wondered if the ripples
travelled into the beyond.

Now I live in an old house on a dusty street
Watching as the rodents scurry back and forth;
An old man, waiting for rain.

 

Pop Song.

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by Virginia Bell. after Diane Seuss I met my father again in The Pleasure Chest on North Milwaukee, in the garden center on Clarke called Gethsemane, in a nightclub in Spain back when everyone was playing The Police on repeat, and he said to me, is that you, little chickadee, he said, like a monk […]

Aside.

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by Marissa Bell Toffoli. Field of infinite whispers. Supple blades of pale sage,
the color of cat eyes. How they widen / wink in sunlight. It’s not always clear what is real. The past is ever present / now slips out from under us. Day at the shore, look out for the horizon. Memory traces a […]

Tail-end News.

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by Diana Morley. When an arctic air blast nears zero here maybe 60 under my desk near the door best to check tail-end news for the magic of an LOL! to warm up down to my toes. Today totally rewarding. A young Dutch chess player was fined for wearing canvas sneakers at a chess championship—as […]

Magic Missing.

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by Diana Morley. Sun not yet set rampaging winds whip the earth as if wanting to wipe off the whole mess and start over. Pleas from earth keepers torn apart—hanging chads pelted to the ground under a sweeping roar. Our planet, our home no child’s Magic Slate with pull-up plastic.

Long Shadow Thrown.

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by Guinotte Wise. For a smallish fellow I throw an impressively long shadow about five pm, but so does a blade of grass, a weed, a fencepost. Mine, however, reminds me of a photograph of marchers to Selma so many years ago. Heroic shadows. Long strides indicated. Unhesitating steps. Solidarity that shook certain worlds. They […]

Should Have Been.

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by Holly Day. Here is a little bird that should have been born but something happened to its sky-blue shell. There should have been feathers in that dark cavern, but there is only yolk and rubbery bone. One tiny malformed foot. If you hold the little broken egg up to the sky, it almost disappears […]

Bot Apology.

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by Jonathan Katz. I try to be helpful. My client was labeling governors by their party like Democrats are ( D ) and Republicans are ( R ) but the R’s in parentheses insisted on turning into ® ® ® — little brand registrations – you know, those circles around the letter “R” that mean […]

Every Hour.

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by Lana Hechtman Ayers. Dawn began with the sight of red lights flashing on numerous trucks crowded by the beach entrance, some emergency that brought out fireman and state police, sheriff and ambulance. And now, as daylight moves toward dusk a doe, ears pitched upright, perhaps by the clacking of my old keyboard, pauses its […]

for the road take.

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by Jakub Pacześniak. (Translated by Charles S. Kraszewski) for the road take a honeycomb of fire from the hearth at which you’d sit oftener alone than with anyone else that’s nothing it’s the warmth that counts and that stitch of flame delicately licking the thought of someone’s home within you