E-ISSN 2457-0265


Vol. 4 Issue 3

Michael T. Smith




The expression was like a rune,

Lost into the blank page of history,

Which I yet pretended I could

Decipher, but it – like these runes

Was lost to a second of the past

Recorded in ether, but tugging

At the heart of the matter,

And I raved against

The solidness of emotions,

Against the names we attachk

To every thing we see, gone

In the mind after we see it.

Boring into the impressionable

Inkwell of the past,

The expression fleeted, but it

Remained an enigma, its

Abstraction a gain in form.






Moth to Light


in the beginning was the beginning;

the moth between the light bulbs

drummed out the hour of my birth

with a cadence of fingerprints.


Soon to be on the other side

from seeing the light ere its death,

which written in Sutterline script

is still novel to every creature.


The moth told of a prophecy

a few seconds into the future,

wishing that the Fates

would get their fingers entangled.


According to the logic of time,

we all emerged from this state,

from some Oldber’s paradox

where the bulbs are limited.


To whence we return – the end,

or the end of the end,

as stale as a loaf of bread,

As musty as a moth -- yet more familiar






Run Up to Tomorrow’s Hags

(On Poverty)


Run Up

to tomorrow’s hags

and split your ideas in two,

in front of the already hollowed head

of some monster with a title,

who while you kick around this old dirty still

is waiting in a perfect babble,

in which this King has stolen all you own

and replaced it with a jeer.

Sound is stepping up the long stairway

as you laugh at your own funeral.





About the Poet

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses.  He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals.  He loves to travel.

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