MORE by Chris Fields
MOREBy Christopher Fields More Why seek anything morethan a life that slips frictionlessly by?I want more. I want a life that lashes;I want a life that grinds and scrapes,that prunes away weak piecesexposing lurid truths beneath.I...
LOTUS by Martina Reisz Newberry
LOTUSBy Martina Reisz Newberry
LOTUS
On the other side of the mountain,my wealthy friend has built a castle.It was a long project but now sits,
quiet as a profound thought, complete.The day I visited her, we hadcoffee...
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WALKING by Patrick Hurley
WALKING…selectionsBy Patrick Hurley
#categories collapse in upon themselvesstrange instruments reshapethe structure of space
random interpretations of irregularitywill hold meaning ifone seeks it
vague constructions are part of theadditive art but who shaves awaysuperfluous matter?
#one night in springjupiter...
BALM by Gale Acuff
BALMBy Gale Acuff
Balm
After Sunday School I came home to sinagain, my folks smoking in the kitchenand gulping Yuban and not even dressedand Father unshaven and dishes inthe sink for me to wash later and...
PLATONIC LOVE by Ray Fenech
PLATONIC LOVEBy Raymond Fenech
This Will Never happen to me Syndrome
There is Christmas, Easter and Valentine but also depressing advertisements about cancer. Outside - the slime and sleet - endless winter. Never before had I...
WHAT WAS THAT CITY by Mary Crow
WHAT WAS THAT CITYBy Mary Crow WHAT WAS THAT CITY―after Cavafy What city tangled me in its sandy roots,led me into desert, where I gasped at vastness and vacancy, pyramids fringingmiles of nothing growing, a void I vanished...
NANCY MOREJON’S POETRY Translated by Connor Simons
WINDThree Poems from Nancy Morejon’s “Mutismos”Translated by Connor L. Simons
Wind
A circle. A spirit. A mirror.Immediately myself.From that torturous seat,you come in pursuit of me.What do you search forunder my black figurethat hides itself,even though...
YOUR SUNDAY BEST by Scott Laudati
YOUR SUNDAY BESTBy Scott Laudati
Your Sunday Best
i can see girls at barstoolsready again to push their doubtsdown past the breakers,past spilled pints and menthat wouldn’t carry them on their backslike their fathers.there are cities...
INDIAN POINT by Jack Brown
INDIAN POINTBy Jack Brown
After planting purple spider wortaround the tombstone of the old soldierin the cemetery at the end of the roadwe scuttle from ridge to ridge.A country Docand a visitor from New York.
May...
ROMANCE OF THE MASK by Frederick Pollack
ROMANCE OF THE MASKBy Frederick Pollack
Kin
By the late seventeenth century he isat least possible, crying “Bring outyour dead” and breaking intohouses where the distinctionis moot; where the doctorswith great beaked masks full of posieshave...