Laura LeHew On a Scale arthritis, hot throbbing bunions worn-out line-paint yellow the thrum stretching on for miles without end pop Pop POP of corn the burnt butter stale stench of a movie theatre Fanta orange aura migraine’s prequel lavender bruise blue as a phlebotomist tortures searching for a vein three week cluster headaches onContinue reading “#95”
Ricky Garni NOT A SHOWER THOUGHT I suddenly realized–I think this happened when I was on my bicycle near UNC Chapel Hill, North Carolina where the traffic can be rather frisky – that there is a mathematical/statistical component to love, specifically, the odds of love’s success, just as with chocolate and love there is theContinue reading “#94”
Peter Magliocco Not (But Fading Away) I am not a critic but a poetry daredevil leaping over sin because I don’t care why Madonna’s in the rut of her adoption life or any other pressing pabulum for dust-worm thoughts: I am not a reader of poetry because billboards bore me, the papers all say theContinue reading “#93”
Steve Calamars cross-dressers and crucifixions in a riot of rottweilers and rotten apples lou ferrigno kicked holes in the earth pistols pulled i pumped’em full of pinballs and paper airplanes empathetic as a rubik’s cube—
Presenting: Patrick Braun On the nights when we sit silently together the room is still except the second hand moving with deadly precision, each tick an explosion. We stare as the clock gradually destroys time.
Presenting: Justin Hyde sitting alone at the authentic mexican restaurant a young family in the booth behind me. the daughter: pale-faced about my son’s age. she stands up turns around little finger tapping my shoulder she asks: where’s your family? abby your father said sit down, her mother says plopping her back into the booth.Continue reading “Out of the Cupboard #14”
Jennifer LeBlanc Ophelia (Regarding Paul Steck’s Ophelia Drowning, 1895) She rushes under the surface with ethereal grace, the pastel-palette whirl of skirts surrounding ankles, the raising of her hair and crossing of her forearms, you can hear the whir of water, muffled and hushed. The stained painting is a small reflection in my hand whenContinue reading “#91”