ee coli

i carry you with me (i carry you
inside) i am never without you (anywhere
i go you go, my symbiote; and whatever feeds
you is my doing)
                          i fear
that here is the deepest secret a body knows
being more of you than cells i own, my microbiome
home to the root of the root
of a tree called life; which grows

I carry your DNA (i carry it in my gut)
and up my nose

by David Barber

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David Barber lives in Norfolk, England, a county considered to be a generation behind the times. This is a good thing. His ambition is to write


the king of clubs
he throws his toys out of the playpen

by Robert Witmer

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Robert Witmer was born in the home of the Little League World Series, though he has resided in Tokyo, Japan, for the past 40 years. He is currently a semi-retired college professor and happy grandfather. He has published a book of haiku in English, Finding a Way, that promises to lead one through the seasons of our lives, with some chuckles along the way.


O Pizza! My Pizza!

O Pizza! my Pizza!  our fearful cooking's done,
The crust has weathered every turn, the sauce and cheese are one,
The table's near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While following the waiter's steps, the pie on high he's holding;
  But O heart! heart! heart!
    O the bleeding drops of red,
      Where on the floor my Pizza lies,
        Fallen cold and dead.

If I Can Stop One Pizza from Burning

If I can stop one pizza from burning,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can stop one life the waiting,
On a parlor line with hunger pains,
Or help one sliding mushroom
Unto the pie again,
I shall not live in vain.

by O'Neill Curatolo

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O'Neill Curatolo is a biophysicist who holds 36 US Patents. His most-recent thriller, titled Too Many Hats: Herbal Medicine and The Mob pits a scientific muckraker against herbal medicine con men. Curatolo also writes quirky non-fiction pieces about toxins for Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine. He lives a quiet life on the Connecticut shore.


Riding Down the Freeway Twenty Miles from Nowhere

Whose car this is I think I know:
The driver’s, with me fast in tow.
He pays no heed as I complain,
And ever on and on we go.

As we continue down the lane
Stuck in my car seat I remain,
Between my siblings I am set,
This darkest hour of my pain.

I stretch the seat’s restraints, and yet
No blessed freedom can I get.
I beg and moan and scream and weep.
This ride will never end, I bet.

Go forth, my curse: Bleepity-bleep!
This and all car rides you can keep!
There’s miles to go before I sleep.
Yes, miles to go—I’ll never sleep!

by Julian D. Woodruff

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Julian D. Woodruff writes from western NY, mainly for children, often about them, and every so often about their parents. He is interested in how, or if, youngsters grow into adulthood. His presence on social media may be tended to with the growth of fame and fortune.