1st Place

Feet on Fire

“To the secret fort!” Nikki said
And we ran out from the shelter
Of the weeping willow.
Our feet hit the ground,
Hot and burning
But we were wild and
Invincible!
Through trees and bushes
There was a clearing small enough
For two 6 year olds and a table,
Where we planned our adventures.
We lived off ripened strawberries
Her grandpa grew and we learned to fly
Off swings, shoes first,
To the ground.
Every day ended
Reluctantly.
We found a caterpillar

It had been days since Lionel had made a stop, it was raining, and the station wagon had begun to reek of sweat and piss. You could feel the weight of the musky scent in the air. Twelve jugs sat, filled to the rim with urine, swishing in the backseat. They were his only quiet passengers. Lionel had exhausted his Vienna-sausage-and-cracker supply at this point. He had also run out of urine storage, and he longed for sleep he wasn’t getting. He needed to make a stop, but he wasn’t sure if he was still being followed. He glanced in

The cashier looked up from the counter with his zombie eyes.

"There's no price tag on this shirt," he said flatly.

Steve inhaled deeply, and then let a sigh escape from his lips. "I know," he replied, "that's what I've been trying to tell you. I found it over on that rack," he gestured, "with those other shirts. Now, I really like this particular shirt and I don't really care if it is on sale or not. I just want to buy it."

The cashier held his scanning gun and stared at his register screen as if an answer would spontaneously appear.

There’s dust stirring up everywhere we walk
This place is dry as death and depressing as hell
Would be as quiet if we weren’t here
The Nazis made their mess and now we’re here to tidy it
Three years here and the ugliest thing I’ve seen
Was a lunch of Limburger and tea

I was looking at the moon last night
It was like peering at a scene from a
Harlem Renaissance story or novel
It was like smoky poetry
All misty and alluring
Come to me she is gesturing
My moon is no man
Yes
She is all misty and mysterious
And it’s night
And she has something to say
The bright lights of man
Cannot hold a candle to what I got
Want some?

My favorite living poet
Has risen from the ashes
To bless me
He always blesses me
That not-so-long-ago-day
We met at the neighborhood pub
(Where I suspect many poems are given birth)
Remains fresh in my heart
Men talking music and poetry
Until we could slur no more

Samir the mechanic, wide-eyed and smiling, edged the motorbike from his garage and stood it on its last crooked leg. The key, a bent spoon, he tossed to me obliquely. The bike had tires thin and a hundred times plugged and mended, brakes worn and feeble, mudguard twisted outwards, tail lamp scratched and drooping, handlebars stiff and rusted, and front lights scarcely luminescent. But it was all I could afford and I loved it for what it was worth: 95,000.