• Shelli Cornelison ~ Not the Theme Song I Would’ve Chosen

    Sometimes When we Touch” by Dan Hill drifts from the speak­ers in the wait­ing room. I have to look up the singer because I’ve for­got­ten, if I ever knew his name at all.

    Tuning out the sap­pi­ness is impos­si­ble. I can’t focus on any­thing else as –more

  • James McKee ~ Four Poems


    There were nev­er many trains for us to take
    and most are long gone by now.
    The big arrivals board is blank. Or bro­ken.
    The help desk went dark hours ago.

    That scruffy local cross­es the decrepit hall
    for anoth­er quick one at the bar.
    He seems –more

  • Thomas Barnes ~ Gravity Well

    Below the foot­bridge, traf­fic was an end­less wave. Sarge fragged a bot­tle over the chain­link. It land­ed in the crush­er of a pass­ing garbage truck, shat­tered.

    Your ride is here, don’t miss it,” he said, cock­ing a thumb at the reced­ing machine.

    I –more

  • Julia Forrest ~ 14 Photographs

    Julia Forrest is a Brooklyn based artist. She works strict­ly in film and prints in a dark­room in her apart­ment. Her art has always been her top pri­or­i­ty and in this dig­i­tal world, she con­tin­ues to work with tra­di­tion­al wet film pro­cess­ing. She prefers –more

  • Tommy Dean ~ Uncertain

    1. We weren’t sup­posed to be home, both of us feign­ing sick, under­wear down around some of our ankles. Senior year. Promises made to love each oth­er for­ev­er.

    2. Morning announce­ments inter­rupt­ed by the turn­ing on of TVs, the large box­es anchored to –more

  • J. Weintraub ~ Driving Mom and Dad Home from the Wedding


    When I awoke, I real­ized that both my con­tact lens­es and my moth­er were miss­ing, although at first I was far more con­cerned about the con­tact lens­es. After all, with­out them how much more dif­fi­cult would it be to find my Mom, not to men­tion our –more

  • Pia Ehrhardt & Nina Temple ~ Four Excerpts from Now We Are Sixty

    The Color of Hunger

    It’s New Year’s Day and the streets look hun­gover. In the back­seat, Malcolm and I have loaded in our French artist friends, Bullet and Stephen. They hold hands and mut­ter roman­tic bits we’d like to under­stand and mut­ter. Love talk in English –more

  • Gary Percesepe ~ 6 Prose Poems


    We are born, buried for a while, then spring up just as every­thing
    is clos­ing. ~ John Ashbery

    Judges marched back­wards up the steps. I saw it was time to ques­tion the trees. Now all the leaves lie brown in the ditch. Girls gone. The new­ly shoed hors­es –more

  • Stephanie Powell ~ Poems

    heat wave

    heat wave day. a mar­riage pro­pos­al between the moth and the win­dowsill. it hov­ers an inch in the air. trapped between peel­ing ledge and rigid wall of blinds — a suf­fo­cat­ing union.

    he, humanoid, top­less, wilts in the hot cen­tre of the room. like the –more

  • W.T. Pfefferle ~ Hard Looks

    I’ve just about had all I’m going to take from this place. In the morn­ings it’s fog­gy, the clouds come in at night, low, cov­er every­thing with dew and wet­ness. And then by the time the sun comes up it’s already hot, humid­i­ty bring­ing sweat to my fore­head. –more

  • Victoria Lancelotta ~ Misssive

    We parked our­selves on 26 acres in the woods on a lit­tle old moun­tain north of Myersville, MD in mid-March and only leave when absolute­ly nec­es­sary. Not much is nec­es­sary. Here we have assort­ed bod­i­ly vis­i­tors, plus Doug, who steals food from the birds, –more

  • Dan Crawley ~ Baked Potato

    In the entry­way, Debbie says, I have some­thing new to show you.

    I fig­ure it’s a 75” flat screen or a shiny car in the garage. Then she tells me it’s in her room. And I know she means a new way we can fuck. Then I hear her mom call out from the –more

  • Donovan Hufnagle ~ 5 Poems

    The Scourge and the Kiss

    Dear Gov. Rick Snyder,

    At age 74, I expect­ed my body to
    change. To wilt. To fade. But I’m
    a frail saltine spread with peanut
    but­ter just for good humor. I expect
    to fol­low road maps and rivers
    greater and longer than –more

  • Paul Van Sickle ~ The Overton window

    Outside my win­dow today it is rain­ing. Seven bum­ble­bees strug­gle against the drops. They strain to bear their own weight, emer­ald fronds of grass below ready to receive what pollen falls from their over­laden bod­ies, what hon­eyed –more

  • Philip Kienholz — Five Poems

    Triggers and Consequence

    Even con­fuza­tion­al cur­tains drawn aside
    manip­u­lat­ing the punch-up show stayed hid­den
    Fogged atmos­pheres, the con­coct­ed nar­ra­tives baf­fled audi­ences,
    dis­tract­ed atten­tion, fooled under­stand­ing the maraud­ing scenes,
    mutat­ing plots

    In mul­ti­pli­ca­tions of –more