Conduit by Richard Fein I do not own that atom or this one here in my finger. They are all replaced every seven years or so. So how can I say that atom is mine or this one here in my finger? Only the body is constant but even that decays. Disordered matter from air, water, earth lockstep for seven years, forming me, then disperse and go their separate ways. Like rain on a flooded roof flowing in linear order down a rusty drainpipe then splashing randomly on the street, I am a conduit from chaos to chaos. -- -- -- Top | Home

Home Fiction | Essays | Art The Thing About Me by Jennifer Goike How a Horseman Loses His Words by Apryl Fox Pigtails by Jessica Rivchin The Annie Oakley Index and Other Poems by Christopher Mulrooney Under and Out the Red Star by Max Roland Ekstrom The Suicide of Vincent van Gogh by Jacob Scanlan Two Poems by Kate Delany Inwardly, Outwardly by Ralph Malachowski Three Poems by Joanne Lowery Voice by Jane Dalton Possessed by Karin Wittig January on Bellevue Avenue by Amy Munno A Villanelle for Elvis by Beth Anne Bates Ascendant Blackness (English Version) by Lara Krasnobroda Negrura Ascendente (Spanish Version) by Lara Krasnobroda Entropy by Jesse Carr There is but a slow and subtle difference by James Suit