By David Kowalczyk

This word is a marvelously unkempt

garden of letters. Its eyes are

swimming in tequila, charged with

the spirit of Quetzalcoatl.


This word rings with echoes of marimbas

and the laughter of the surf.

It is a lost Hittite meandering through time.

It loves to celebrate the shamelessness

of creation.


David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred journals and magazines, including Taj Mahal Review, California Quarterly, Istanbul Literary Review and Maryland Review. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, as well as at Arizona State University.  He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.

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