Article Category: Poetry

tourniquet/truncate by Lori Dofman

the stomach hungers for a body to swallow   tourniquet halve, plum and core me   a pine tree above your rib an acorn in your foot   i made a home in a red velvet mouth, though sucking stained your lips cream and me, cherry   truncate cut and crate me   i was a stack of starving bones, white with no marrow   but now i boil in your blood

Poetry by R. A. Lucas

The Excuse: an Email   Still not certain how my schedule will unfold   I am confronted by a roiling combination of previous promises weather events   miscellaneous omens now conspire to leave me dealing in a world of 18% grey.… Read More “Poetry by R. A. Lucas”

APPLE A DAY STORE by Gerard Sarnat

‘Steada perusing for the next latest greatest killer application to count my pulse or blood oxygen level now we are looking for that newfangled savior app which waved in front of folks registers if they have coronavirus.

LEAVETAKING, A GUIDE by Ellen Ritterberg

When, thrust out of, rousted from billowy somnolence, while nuzzled, nosed into by heat-seeking missile while asleep, their protestations, imprecations ignored, and   all demurrals having failed, some women do what they feel they must do and give in.   The giant enters.   Once goaded, Compliant, docile bulls, they remain silent except for maybe a snort or two which may just be breathing.… Read More “LEAVETAKING, A GUIDE by Ellen Ritterberg”

THIS SPRING by Raymond Byrnes

A dear but distant friend sent me the link to a camera on the Platte that captures, live, during sunset,   upwards of 100,000 cranes returning from far fields to roost midstream on sandbar sanctuaries.   Countless chains of gliding shadows cross a red bandana sky, swing  back, hover, drop, safe in numbers.   How astonishing to see so many birds becoming islands in a river while I, far removed, anticipate a virus flocking in.   Last April, I saw songbird silhouettes fly across a bright midnight moon, counted shad on underwater video   heard the first redwing trill from branches high above a parkland pond.… Read More “THIS SPRING by Raymond Byrnes”


When the crow pixilates the bricks of the building no longer look bricks or even brick-like or some approximation thereof they look like velvet or is it velveteen wish I knew Wish I could create a word for every word that autocorrects creates for me opportunity for self-exploration or if not that then clarification of what I might mean counterintuitive though it might be autocorrection qua thought howsoever non-original it may not be The writing of it, the simultaneity of it, the whole hog full engagement thereof in the writing that is if you dig if you follow me that forces me to formulate the meaning of trees not the oxygenation or other life forms and humans the gaseous cycle or however that CO2 oxygen exchange tap dance works, the oxygen just out there for the taking or was or used to be with emphasis on the past and if not, what function might the term urban blight serve except to remind we are oxygen deprived clean air as dodo bird air as unwonted speck in the eye particulate matter perpetual glacial calving magma stewing.… Read More “WHEN THE CROW PIXILATES ON THE IMAGE by Ellen Ritterberg”

LIGHT by B. S. Roberts

I watch the stars                as they swell below, a motion                ineffable as time casting my corporal form                in foam – with a burst                my immaterial shell fountains                                  stealing [freeing]                 my transfluent thoughts                                    whisking them away I see you in celestial light your curvatures mimic           the crescent moon tantalizing glimpses            of all that you are body and soul            [beautiful]

OUR CAT by James B. Nicola

Molasses pours down like an asp from his divan his eyes as wise as the ancient kingdom then trickles northward like the Nile, past zebras, lions, giraffes and bears (Ben’s stuffed dolls, whom he rules as well) and through a misted torrid-zone jungle (Edie’s clippings, ferns and potted palms) to the sliding glass wall of his palace; spies cousins wild and other aliens hopping through, flying round, over the rushes (exotic grass, the latest in landscaping).… Read More “OUR CAT by James B. Nicola”

TWILIGHT OF BEOWOLF by Linette Marie Allen

When               you tell me no,                   you are beautiful when               you show me yes—               the x pinks of                     your pain,                    I part                  your                 home like                  crab,                suck the secrets                    blind like choice                         meat meant               for hoar- smoke coming home in the rain.                                 … Read More “TWILIGHT OF BEOWOLF by Linette Marie Allen”

Pandora av Mette Norrie

Det er sommer og indeni den ligger en anden sommer: en sommer der fortsætter den korte sommer der blev kort fordi noget usommerligt afskar den fra at være sommer, fra at være en årstid, fra overhovedet at være en tid, men nu er det sommer: den anden sommer, den fortsatte bevægelse; en æske åbnes og sekunderne får en chance til.… Read More “Pandora av Mette Norrie”

Buster Keaton by Joel Scarfe

The kindly night has taken in this body, pestered as it is with drink. A radio is playing out in the street, and the brain in the body is beginning to think of Buster Keaton jumping through a window, or riding the side-rods of a train. His face unchanged by decades’ grim duty. His famous hat doffed between the wars.

Diversion by Joel Scarfe

After a day spent attempting to impress those good-looking girls who were not impressed I would retreat into the company of boys and drink, and on one such night, sitting on a friend’s bed blowing smoke at giant moths driven mad with the light, I gulped down a pint of cognac, and by the fourth or fifth time that I fell off my bike in the dark, I truly believed that I had, at last, grasped the meaning of the word sublimation.

Commute by Joel Scarfe

Early enough to hear the light whispering like a lover to the dawn I cross the street, evading Messalina’s grip, and find the pavement is already sick with pigeons, going at each other over scraps of bread scattered at the feet of Christ (possibly) who looks as though he hasn’t slept since all that Gethsemane business. And holding, like a sheriff’s badge his can of Special Brew, he stumbles away, begging the air’s forgiveness.

Look Up Curtis! by Joshua Plack

This strip of Friday night nowhere pulses for our baby blue Saturn CD skipping the third-measure bump, jump, falsetto cracks and we taste it in our jaws riding white and talking that shit like we run the pool hall with one leg like Kirby limping and shucking on smooth southpaw licks, watching VHS tapes from the backs of magazines with Grier and Roundtree and playing like we black cause we don’t know what that means just yet and now the lights are falling in Flatbush and all of us and Brooklyn are paralyzed.… Read More “Look Up Curtis! by Joshua Plack”


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