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Poetry

When armed with an arsenal

Of ideas bigger than bombs

And words that are piercing as arrows

Quivering

With swelling anticipation

Like the tide, it crests

 

When faced with a blank white page

You wait for the explosion

The crash of the ocean wave

It destroys the castles you have built

But you call it

Creation.

 

—Emily Faison

Craig McCarthy

every night the moon slurs, smiles leering compliance, consenting out of the corner of her face. at midnight, I am less, after just one more test.   regretted by the bashful sun, at midday, his light lets learning in from a drunk, swallowing sex — drinking down below all morals, creating cause, causing effect, from all unwritten words, learned, taught, spoken, now unlearned, in the lush lavished unloved love of leaving after love. sinking in sleeping, in Read more [...]

Life Springs/Raspberry Bush

Life Springs Sitting in a dark room breeds thoughts of the soul not to be indulged   the bliss of life lies in the simple   the penetrating sunlight pierces through the abyss   illuminating all the shadows dank dark crevices   new life springs from death to be reborn anew like a butterfly its cocoon   Raspberry Bush The raspberry bush expanding full of life seemed to offer endless tart bounty   they were Read more [...]

Rich Ives

Damp Those little dream brothers were made of chicken feathers, and I had to blow their dream parts forcefully from my nose. I was lobbing bottles of vitamin water at their cute little feet.   You’ll need help to rise now and some dreams won’t take you back, as if there were something determined in their breath.   We were after love that night, but wet and mysterious was close enough. You carried several husbands in your peekaboo pants, and This just pisses Read more [...]

Bad Timing

A line outside the liberty bell, bars you can still smoke in, cyclists covered in tattoos; my five-foot-one sister playing dress-up in her brand-new, oversized Albert Einstein Hospital coat. Everyone gone, to the shore. (Fourth of July weekend.) Gray, cobblestone streets nearly empty, melting before dusk. It’s my last day here. A crowd gathering for the presidential motorcade Jolts me out of sleep. Kids laughing on the sidewalk below, the day disappearing. Love’s Read more [...]

Pieces Of Minute-Hands

time runs

fluid stop-motion

over carpet –

 

around in music syncopation,

notes hanging from the ceiling

like mobiles

 

and your hands keep reaching

for the moon, but clouds swarm

and silver is only a flimsy figment

in the dark

—Sarah Lucille Marchant

 

Spotlight

By D. Trunick Eyes wide, legs quivering, sweat glistening, she feels ready to heave. The thick dusty red curtain brushes against her hands but provides no relief. “Why can’t I do this?” rolls from her dry parched lips. Panic and desperation enter her heart like a flash flood. She longingly watches from the side. Her conflicted soul jolts alive with the increasing brilliance of the lights above. Never stepping into view, her shadow begins to spin and sway to the music. Behind the curtain she Read more [...]

The Mortuary School

Frankie bites a peach, axks what’s gonna be on the test. Here sit our vessels, dressed up in sound, shrouded in the rattle of bone & the tap of Celeste’s pencil as she copies questions onto the surface of the desk: How can we cut the carotid artery, and how will the heart, that is no longer beating, respond? In which chamber will the attack be the end of us, and which will just make us very lucky, an avoider of the salt shaker, fierce embracer Read more [...]
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