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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 11, Number 2, June 2017

Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy
Birmingham, West Midlands, UK


The promise of a rich harvest of plums from the neem tree, life lasting a thousand years, a hen that lays golden eggs . . . PigWig steps down from the dais to deafening applause.

hood raised, a cobra
swaying to the been
a mic and lies
enough to spin the world
on its head

Portending the prosperity that is to come, bank notes get thrust into greasy hands. Some set off fireworks, while others stage well-orchestrated and rehearsed performances, praising the greatness of PigWig.

an ant on a twig
caught in the eddy—
an X
inscribed on the doors
of illegal aliens

Days like never before, rumours of Butt-In's involvement notwithstanding. No one remembers beyond a week anyway. PigWig makes impassioned speeches to Primerika.

the gathering dark
glimmers with gunshots—
watch over fields replete
with cracks

Everyone blames the aliens. They must go back to where they don't belong. They go to meet PigWig and submit a petition. He is away—playing golf.

boughs weighed down
by broken dreams . . .
to and fro
the wind gently rocks
their bodies

Too many for anyone to care. A week later, everyone's celebrating again.

Author's Note: A been is a wind instrument played by snake charmers in India.



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