She was twenty, she was impressionable;
I betrayed her, she was angry, and
I left her; I was impressionable,
I regretted it; she was twenty, and
I am not a spiteful man and
I am not a poet.
That is, the–I dare not yet say my–
I say, the odalisque rises, stretches,
retches PBR and bilious memory,
all of it, down to dry dregs, and
flushes it onto this page.
Watch it run, quick on quick,
Continue reading “Retch Romantic by Jan Von Stille”
Look-horror: eye line of mouth. Squeeze back. Flesh ripple. Extrude.
Now: google a crime scene photo. Axe to head. Shotgun face. Bathtub meat. Blank. Google a suicide note. I LOVE YOU. Look-horror: reach towards ?
GO TO YOUR BATHROOM.
Sweetest day of my life is stolen by the sun who saw me and chose to rise two hours late. Everybody stops to look not at me. I am dull gold as if I did not already my own skin. Do you know how long it takes to grow courage to steal from the one you might love? 4 generations. My mother might leave me where she found me and the shame might be archived as a hymn. At least now I am the only one who is not blinded; I am too Continue reading “The sun, who stole my secret to raise me by Amara Amaryah”
Where the Desert Met the Sea
…………..I had a dream where the desert met the sea. Imagine it—a shore of fleshy dust filled with creosote and mesquite, limbs small and fragile like those of the starving. My skin began to feel as though coated with fire, and the chair of earth I sat upon crumbled Continue reading “A Prose Poem and A Poem by Laura Stringfellow”
I meditate separately. I read enclosed.
together we try to watch a panoramic video of a lunar eclipse. there’s a second where we both hold still phone aligned with the moon
on an empty side street you sit in your car & inter questions about the lost causes of poetry, as the windows are touched by bay mist Continue reading “The Private Study & Interior Architecture by Beau W. Beakhouse”
An Ancestral Love of Boyish Bees
He recognizes painted eyes like green
irises mythologized over a decade and
a half ago — the speckled girl, sixteen,
he used to know — acquainted, where you stand
in her place, in your hand replica, bisque,
familiar face, unblemished cheeks, unbloomed
by his demonic lips. Lunar eclipse Continue reading “Womannotated – An Ancestral Love of Boyish Bees (Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream)”
I beseech you, Our Lady
……………of the 2 Factor. I
receive innumerable torrents
……………of bits, impulses which jam
<b l i n k>
……..…… fell asleep by the endtrance door secure locked had ascended
the starecase without disturbing a fly aslip of a tongue knocked
understood the treason of existence or just laughed in advance the end
was always near accidentally spilled wrath always hangry for news paper
cuts metallic artifacts a finger is pointing to the horrorzone giggles
dissolve the dark figure in the corner it persists Continue reading “abite* by Darya Kulbashna”
The Dirt on Our Shoes
Peering down rabbit holes
is a sign of fever. Unable to move,
we haul logic in our wake—
the dirt on our shoes disappearing.
Unable to move, a sign of fever
the intensity of infinity—
we haul logic in our wake
where words put down roots.
Continue reading “Three Remixed Poems by Shloka Shankar”
When the big one hits, my boats
will be poised to transport passengers
from mainland California to the massive
wedge that falls off into the Pacific Ocean.
Continue reading “San Andreas Shores Ferry Service by Todd Mercer”
i dreamed of a fast talking charmer named mike who wanted me to work for him selling cars
he’d started out in jewelry so was well experienced in pushing high ticket items
but being a savvy chinless guy figured cars would always be needed
and diamonds despite being a girl’s best friend couldn’t get you to work at least not in most situations Continue reading “Dream Diary № 1 by RC deWinter”
If you come home your nightgown hem awash with dew,
you must have been dancing with the alpha wolf,
clinging to the wool of his collar, your paw
buried in the silk of his shoulder, your ankle
heeling to his rhythms as your heart nearly bursts,
striding, finding your place in his midnight pack.
like some obscure camera looming
the kitchen table reflects my image on
a chair by the table quietly
four nice chairs to sit in, to pull out
from under the table
shuffle the space, formulate the square room and
Continue reading “At The Kitchen Table by Sigrid Bergie Feliciano”