• Catherine Fletcher ~ Four Poems

    Laws of Gravity

    I toss an apple in the air to ensure grav­i­ty is still pulling,
    ignor­ing that you told me apples are forbidden.

    The roots of my garden’s trees grow toward Earth’s center.
    Four times a day, tides ebb and swell.

    The neigh­bors still groom their fine –more

  • Dan Crawley ~ Uncle Sam

    Most of us crowd in Uncle Sam’s small house. He screams we’re evil, look­ing to do him harm. He kicks, swings at the air. Some of my lit­tle cousins race from the bed­rooms to the liv­ing room to the kitchen and loop back again. My mom and Aunt Carrie –more

  • Robert Herbst ~ Do I Have to Spell it out for You?

    The first thing I noticed was the pink house with white columns. Bonsai trees lined the sec­ond-floor bal­cony like pot­ted, dis­em­bod­ied limbs, and out­side the front door flew the biggest American flag I’d ever seen. In con­trast, the win­dows were all –more

  • Robert Scotellaro ~ Three Entries from a Somnambulist’s Dictionary

    Wakethefuckup:

    The road trip, they agree, is a last chance.  They haven’t made love in months, main­ly because he drags him­self in like a sack of lead fish­ing weights and plugs, first thing, into cable news.  Plugs him­self in: brain and –more

  • Shome Dasgupta ~ A Kolkata Dream

    Consider a sin­gle cloud—angry and scowl­ing, drift­ing away and bob­bing up and down, almost like it’s in the ocean try­ing to reach the hori­zon, and how dark and mad­dened, by itself amid plains of skies, giv­ing home to avian flocks who pierce through –more

  • Droning Keyboard Group ~ Groom ’80

    Droning Keyboard Group is a loose assem­blage of long ded­i­cat­ed play­ers work­ing out of the Pacific Northwest, com­mit­ted in recent years to fol­low­ing the muse wher­ev­er it leads, which is to say these days in the direc­tion of long form –more

  • Casey Killingsworth ~ Five Poems

    Me and Milton Friedman
    _____________________________

    There is some­thing more to lot­ter­ies than chance.
    For once we’re all qui­et and even equal, each one of us
    hold­ing our small receipt of democ­ra­cy, expect­ing with
    mag­nan­i­mous faces our num­ber to be called.

    Except it’s not, not equal. When I took a –more

  • Kip Knott ~ Three Poems

    Hinterland: A Golden Shovel

    Now I am qui­et­ly wait­ing for
    the cat­a­stro­phe of my personality
    to seem beau­ti­ful again,
    and inter­est­ing, and modern.
    — Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky”

    1

    After months of iso­la­tion, I won­der who it is I see now
    when, at the win­dow, I
    stare –more

  • R. Sebastian Bennett ~ I Bought a Book

    I bought a book. Books are good. Amazon sent it to my house. That was nice. I read my book. I liked it. I want­ed to tell the world about my read­ing expe­ri­ence. Amazon let me review my book. That was nice. I typed my review, and Amazon flashed me a –more

  • Aaron Angello ~ Four Poems

    Sullen

    Patterns of silence in pri­vate, sup­pressed whelps, dead air. A woman curled into a ball at the top of the stairs, weep­ing, apoplec­tic. A few months ear­li­er, there were two para­keets that freely flew through every room in the house. This isn’t a metaphor –more

  • Christopher Allen ~ Missing Person

    I’ve joined the work­force for three rea­sons: 1) the new min­is­ter of music at church is giv­ing voice lessons for $8 a pop, 2) Mama and Daddy don’t have the mon­ey, and 3) free cookies.

    I start on prep because I’m “too scrawny to work the counter.” –more

  • Thomas Belton ~ Bus Ryde To Skool

    1.

    Rid e on bu s
    thr ough streets
    of sno w

    Pas the
    Magneto sphere
    Giant

    Ball of elec­tri city
    Pulling busted
    cars

    Up wards in to
    A field of force
    crumbling

    Drop ed into
    the maw
    of a furnace

    Then

    In a blink
    The bus
    Moves on

    Down South St
    reet and
    past

    Fitler Square
    –more

  • Richard Leise ~ Jennifer

    Jennifer did not go by Jen, and she cer­tain­ly did not answer to Jenny.  Her name was like her face, a sen­si­ble orga­ni­za­tion of set, or fixed, shapes.  Her name was not a hair­cut, a style, some part of her­self that, for wed­ding or whim, could be cut, –more

  • D. E. Hardy ~ Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

    Genevieve’s liv­er wan­dered at night, nev­er far, just down the road, into this house or that, crawl­ing through a win­dow or down a chim­ney, nib­bling on whomev­er, on Sarah Cunningham after her ass­hole ter­ri­er tore up the rhodo­den­drons, on Amy Vanderwall –more

  • Jack Barker-Clark ~ Wilter on the Rise

    My name was Wilter. I worked in sales. Ceramics, earth­en­ware, minaret lanterns. We sold tiles in rusty ocean, sil­ver oat, under­sto­ry, these were our colours. There was no pres­sure, tar­gets, account­abil­i­ty, and every month-end I was up for –more