Paul Haeder: the last photographic plate tainted with tears of missed sunrises, burning orange lifting pacific shells of turtles from depths she kicks sand back to eternity
Paul Lojeski: They beatin and killin dark peoples and foreigners and I truly feel bad but see I got a pass with this white skin.
Paul Lojeski: Once more, the living dead have risen to steal the beaten, bloody land, to plunder history, to despoil the one true mother for coins and capital, for power’s poisoned love.
Paul Haeder: The house is sky burled with wheat penetrating winds, light with stove lids open, wolves in the night standing down stars, a glacial weight on their world.
Paul Lojeski: This unfriendly winter, especially dark and rough heralding in, as it will, a change in kings: one quiet, suave killer replaced by a loud, fist-swinging would-be-thug emperor always yelling, threatening blood curses upon his enemies, any wicked souls who dare disagree with his sour bloviations.