Fruit for Thought…

SR Oranges

(My homeboy “Stevie Ray” guarding the tangerines. – LK Thayer)

“The playwright Edward Albee has characterized [the suddenness of the appearance of fruits and flowers in evolutionary history] as ‘that heartbreaking second when it all got together: the sugars and the acids and the ultraviolets, and the next thing you knew there were tangerines and string quartets.”
― Adam Leith GollnerThe Fruit Hunters: A Story of Nature, Adventure, Commerce, and Obsession

Wendy Rainey



The Buskers

The punk rock girls came to my room with daffodils that they had snatched from someone’s garden. They said they were looking for someone to play with. The dark haired girl set her violin on the bed, took a flask from her jeweled purse and poured some scotch into a glass she found by the sink. She handed it to me. I took the glass, glancing at the dried toothpaste on the rim before I downed it. The redhead pulled her ukulele out of a bag and began strumming. She asked me if I could sing, did I play any instruments. The dark haired girl took an apple and two oranges from my desk and began juggling them, her cigarette dangling from her mouth, ash falling on the floor. I motioned for her to throw the fruit to me. She threw an orange, then an apple, then another orange. I juggled in front of the girls as they talked on the sofa. The dark haired girl had woven blue flowers into her hair which was piled up on her head in an enormous bun. In the center of the bun were several tiny plastic babies in different stages of distress. Some of the babies were crawling down the side of her head. The redhead had freckles and a short haircut that made her look like a teenage boy from the front. But from behind a long thin braid hung down her back, tied with a green bow. She began playing her ukulele again. Both girls sang Dream A Little Dream, their voices intertwining with the melody. Still juggling, I joined in. When we were finished the redhead put her ukulele back in her bag and went to the mirror to apply her lipstick. The dark haired girl slipped her flask back into her sparkling bag, grabbed her violin and said, “C’mon, we’re goin’ buskin’ in Piccadilly.” I put my coat on and as we walked toward the door I told the dark haired girl to leave my 5 pounds on the desk where she had found it. She took my 5 pound note from her bra and put it on the desk. I turned to the redhead and pointed to her left jacket pocket, “My necklace, please.” She reached into her pocket and dropped the necklace into my hand. We walked out the door singing Tiptoe Through The Tulips in falsetto through the hallway as we made our way out to the sidewalk and onward to Piccadilly Circus.

Wendy Rainey

L.K. Thayer



“Praises From a Tenor Sax”

like salt on a bloodsucker
recoiling, shriveling
paralyzed fits of punishing

with the sell-out
the down and out
muck and mire choir
praises from a tenor sax
and a song
you can’t let go of

fill the loving cup
and drink it dry
try to stay away
but you can’t fight
the pull
of the taffy

you get stuck in the
and you wanna

L.K. Thayer

Photo by VC Ferry – NYC




Mike Meraz



(Epic Rites Press (2015) Cover art by Toni Greis)


She has the


To give



The highest



And the




And like some




I put my


On the







Even though

I once



I will


Go into that




L.K. Thayer Reviews  SHE POEMS by Mike Meraz

Meraz is a less is more poet. His women have the power

and he lets you feel where he has been punched.

There is no excess in his writing, just below the belt truth.

Meraz takes you into cinematic short films of his love life and

as the leading man,  he makes you care about what happens to him.

SHE POEMS is inspiring, provocative and profound in it’s complex

simplicity. His style is cunning and addictive and after each poem

all you want is more. – L. K. Thayer 

SHE POEMS by Mike Meraz on Amazon

Pablo Neruda

Lemon slices background

A Lemon

Out of lemon flowers
on the moonlight, love’s
lashed and insatiable
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree’s yellow
the lemons
move down
from the tree’s planetariumDelicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
into the starry
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
aromatic facades.So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.