I didn't originate in dust nor did my mother nor my father nor my sister Judy who, like our parents, was shoveled into that fiery furnace from which there is no return, in which the undertaker smelts our souls, and as an bonus, our corpses. There is, however, logic in the demise of literary journals signifying a from-dust to-dust scenario. Paper burns and there is little mystery as to its source, crafted as it is, by hand or factory, in sight of any who wish to watch.
Journals go out of print. Bookcase shelves sag. Small apartments do not expand. I am, therefore and now and then, taking a photo of poems from out-of-print journals and posting them here.
"Aristotle" was published Tipton Poetry Journal ten years ago. He knows from hubris.
