Public Republic

Petja Heinrich Photo: theogeo a real waste of time are the attempts to smooth the edges of the wrinkled shirts chewed up in the angry washing machine there hadn’t been soul foam and water in the merciless spin cycle God is a washerwoman Translated from Bulgarian by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer

Claudia Bierschenk Photo: sheilatostes My shadow char coaled on wet pavement November breeze shivers leaves

Chris Mattingly Photo: brainsik I mixed a pinch of your ashes With ground coffee & brewed them in my French Press.

Vanya Nikolaeva Photo: trialsanderrors Today is almost gone. Tomorrow knocks on the solid door And last minutes of the present Meet the impatient future.

Valentin Krustev Photo: Gaetan Lee For William Meredith I enter slowly, woo the consonants. The vowels are vexed at my approach. But I go on, determined and debauched, Until they start to melt like lustful nuns. Then I retreat, retrieving Os and As, And Us, and Es, and Is, and Ys, before I reunite them […]

M. J. Iuppa Photo: sa_ku_ra I set my desire in a cup and the cup into the sink full of suds, and it sinks to the bottom unseen, with mismatched plates and serrated knives coated in butter and crumbs left to soak. . .

Katherine Van Hook Gulley Photo: Wolfgang Staudt The long lost earth of centuries, connects me to each atom, on the banks of the Clinch River, where once sweet honeysuckle dripped on my lips, as I ran naked and free. I followed the hills where they lead, and ate of the land what it gave.

Jill Kelly Koren Photo: angela7dreams Today we locked my grandpa out of the house To keep him from bothering my mother about The cookies baking; it made me feel a louse To tell a grown man to get out, go out With Paul, your son, out working on the farm.

Theo Edmonds Photo: dawnzy58 I will stay and work here only until the grapes have grown on the vine. The vineyard at harvest is much too violent. Manipulating – The beauty of the liquid nothingness As the wounded water flows hard from their snake-mouthed moan.

Jude Lally Photo: betsssssy live up this freedom lay it all on the line liquidate the things that matter most leave everything behind

Sonja de Vries Photo: kyle simourd I can still feel the bicycle beneath me carrying me through rain slick streets past soldiers, trash piled high, hacked up furniture, stumps of trees every bit of wood in the city burning. I was fifteen, my pants hung down low like they do now for fashion.

Maryanne Hannan Photo: Maryanne Hannan Stuffed in the back corner of our closet in a crumpled bag under graying sheets– Where are the lost places?

Roza Boyanova Photo: lepiaf.geo           in my son’s bed. An afternoon nap in my father’s worn smooth sandals I walk      on the keys           of wonderment. Translated from Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev

Claudia Bierschenk Photo: Victor Bezrukov Maik clutches the keys, his unlucky charm, as he shows foreign tourists through the hell of his life.

Petar Tchouhov Photo: bcmom * * * пълнолуние още една топка за снежния човек full moon one more ball for the snowman

M.J.Iuppa Photo: gina pina Sometimes they arrive on my porch and peck absent-mindedly at the screen door until it opens a crack and I see them standing there, looking at each other, a bit surprised.

Violeta Boncheva Photo: PUPIL_BCN The Gypsy and the horse Are hauling the kernel of life uphill, hoofs pounding on the precipitous rocks, As the Gypsy is cursing at just about anything that flitters on the face of this earth, and the whip is cracking. Not spared is even his mother, Who flashes her teeth, all […]

Ivor Hogg Photo: peasap The veils grow thin on all souls eve and vengeful ghosts are free to leave. The kingdom of eternal night to seek revenge and vent their spite. On erst while relatives and friends, Who have not tried to make amends. Insults offered before they died long brooded on and magnified.

Milena Ivanova-Andreeva Photo: Dia™ Artificial clouds to cool Earth (a headline in Standart newspaper, July 1, 2006) Vienna’s biggest inconvenience is ashtrays: with every cigarette snuffed out in The Kiss, you increasingly give up on Klimt (at the expense of smoking).

Sonja de Vries Photo: L Bonnett We rode the train from Amsterdam to Belgrade It was 1947. I was beginning to look like a woman again after being all knees and elbows, living on potatoe skins and roots all those years. Now we had bread, and even cheese, a bottle of wine from Spain. The […]