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Steve Klepetar “The silver coin on your tongue melts…” –Paul Celan Face of a tiger, eye of an owl etched on this moon disk, wafer born of starlight and mist. Hold it burning in your golden...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Steve Klepetar I don’t know if I spoke any words you need here in the dark where I keep my chest locked against damp and mold. Here are my open hands. What has filtered down to you in the...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
David Rhei A snowflake sidled in my hand at a bus stop one zero below morning. As my ears brought it closer to examine, I realized it sang of the h۞le in its center. And I related with the...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
John Grey In bed, beneath the patched rainbow of my Bolivian blanket, the moon dark-domed, stars purring in the black, close up to a woman’s thighs where forever is vigorously engaged. It...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Neil Ellman (after the painting by Hans Hofmann) At the mention of their names spectral presences, electric, energy like words like energy across an arc of time figures of men and beasts...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Valentina Cano Papers pile in front of me, a loud tower teetering on meaning. I imagine the words spreading like tar over the table, covering my hands in darkness. They’d burn everything,...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Anthony Arnott Bitch. Well, why don’t you just go and sleep with him, then? said? the funny man, the clown, or what that other guy, She smiles, but, is she smiling at him His world has...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Anthony Arnott Fragility, but with robust grace. It pricks and sings, swarms and attacks, embrace and dance; you cannot see it or disguise it, but it remains on you forever, a scent you...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Malcolm Yadack The memories I have of plain grey highways are exceptional. As they very well should be, because the gasoline for all that driving cost a good sum of money. Imagine for a...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Kyle Hemmings Behind the fading pulse of day, Zin is not dying. And although wounded by a thousand loves, she can still perform a petit saut while thirsty. Or “spot” on her own demand,...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Brendan Sullivan In his head he’s Baudelaire, in a dark silk suit and hand crafted boots of butter suede, and he’s sitting in a cafe with leaves swirling around his feet, waiting for the...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Brendan Sullivan I saw you in the ghetto – with your yellow star, pulling teeth and collecting shoes. And then on the last train to Birkenau (or maybe it was Belsen), hunched in a boxcar...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Gary Beck In a conflicted world that produces seething nationalism, rabid terror, the overwhelming need for preservation of species is easily forgotten by temporal rulers, besotted with...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Janet Butler When our suns burn a bronze sky into a sooty dusk and night opens longing fills me. I search cold skies for signs no longer there, for that distant blue-green planet I dream of...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Janet Butler Sundays are wrapped in quiet for me, their glaze of silence, their transparencies of light and shadow suggesting a something sacred watching with deep kind eyes, unlike that...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Basil Rosa When willows yellow and grasses cringe, when frogs and crickets creep with sparrows, when girls with slow faces learn how to sing. An innocent has died. We mourn. Pulled toward...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Erin Robinson He inhales and lays his fingers on the keyboard. Dear Mom and Dad, I’m writing an e-mail before I call so that you can have some time to think about what I have to say. I’m...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Pamela Riley I am vain you say like you know what I am thinking, childish and unruly too unpredictable to mother sons. I would neglect them lead them astray you say not feed them proper...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Tom Sheehan Buried in a wash of vine and leaf, Dyed of mahogany and dead maize Left too long to the weathering, Rebuked it must seem of sunlight Itself, ripening under dark edges, One barn...
Submitted: July 8, 2013
Donal Mahoney “On the window sill the sun’s pure gold today. Usually it’s white,” says drooling Nell, in her hospital smock, her tea turning cold as she braids ram horns of hair high and...
Submitted: July 8, 2013

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