Once again Diderot’s beautiful ruin stands in the corner of my mind,the great book-city he described in Les Bijoux Indiscrets. It stands there with its cupola and wings and spires;the vast cranes that have been thrown up over the roofs,the towers of every color and shape, like laments;the wide-open windows that look out across the city’s view:and…

Walking into the room, welcomed by the smell of stale piss, a urinal at your bedside, filled to the brim. You roll to me with the distorted spine that I hate.I hate. Spiral staircase of useless ribs.They don’t move, they can’t bend, as good as broken.Your faceswallowed by discoloration,canvas of purple. Lacking daylight, and serotonin.Icicles…

Bring on a steamy, sugared something. Dawn Arrived and fled too soon, but gave its chill To us. Before the Bluethroat ends her trill, Set up the cookstove. Make some stew. Get up And look! a misty cloak has veiled our tree. The panes appear as frozen lakes. The lanes Are lined with little, dinky…

Soviet poster, 1975   For October glory  I spurned a break for my wife’s funeral reception.  I have ascended to labor reverie. After turning thirty lachrymose stings and the mirror reflected hammer sprouts from both  acromions and metal  sickles from the  sanctum. By thirty-nine, hammers rose to each intertragic notch and operated independently manipulated by…

3.14159 isthisit 3it89793 is3846isthis 43383is7 9it0is884 1971this93 9937it10 it8is 0974944 59is3078 1this40thisis8 thisis 089986is 803482it 3421170 this798Yes48 0865yes3is Dave Wanczyk is a writer and teacher living in Ohio. This is his second poem about pi.

When the sky dons its robes of indigo I slip into a tranquil reverie, where shadows lengthen and soften, and mirrors hold whispers of ancient stories. A gentle breeze dances through the forest like secrets, a lullaby for my weary soul, a gentle reminder that even in stillness there is movement—a world in transition. As…

[______] by Mark Halliday He sat in a given place at a given time feeling and thinking. At his desk; in a restaurant; on a park bench. He sat on his toadstool thinking of memory and desire. But he was only a boojwah American with a Nissan Sentraand half of a serious mind. Yet when…