Saturday, June 25, 2011

Jeff Fallis

AT BARTON SPRINGS


My feet stick in the slick
moss, I watch the breathing
belly of the gangly

brunette sitting steaming
on the rocks, the stars
arch into brains

and backbends.  Between
the bottom of my ribcage
and the central

sunspot of my navel
is an inner orbit
of nerves and rivers.

I glow odd and alive:
am a moonlit bruise
looking for the fist

that birthed me.



Jeff Fallis is a Ph.D. student in creative writing at the University of Georgia.  His poems have appeared in publications like The Oxford American, The Iowa Review, and Ploughshares and in the anthologies Blues Poems and The Art of Losing.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Adam Clay

THE END


Any sense is stumbling,
I believe with the greatest

ability to do so.

A thousand breakfasts go by

without a single plate.
This is a world where the cars

drive themselves
and the children tuck us in

at night. Somehow, we don’t mind

the thought that we might
not wake up or even be reincarnated

after the world whimpers and whines
toward its mournful end.

I like that look on your face—
let me keep on guessing

wordlessly and thoughtfully.

It’s time to leave this place
worse off than we found it.



Adam Clay is the author of The Wash. His second book, A Hotel Lobby at the Edge of the World, is forthcoming from Milkweed Editions. He co-edits Typo Magazine.

Sunday, June 05, 2011

Alexis Orgera

EXPONENTS


1We are
a thing near
and full,
wide
and empty or—
the notation
of what doesn’t—

2What’s the broken
arrow
in your cheek?
But I know.
It is something
I did to you
in the jungle.

3Distance
marked in stones,
a series
of particulate
revelations.

4Stabbing around
in here, guilty
glyphs
are ocean.

5On the car ride
home from sick
father, I hear
the songs
you left me.

6You might not
think it,
but I can still hear
the trees
glowing.

7From other
countries you send
photos. Splayed
on the table, my betrayal
painted
onto that shop
window
in Florence.

8The pain
in my back
a residual
of your years
of lack.

9Strangest sound,
sprinkler
in winter, the permanent
displacement.
Florida not
an isthmus
you’ll touch
again.

10I don’t need
protection
from a force
wrapped
around my ribcage.
So many years
of unwavering
on that particular
ladder of bone.

11When I left
I wore
a mask
so you
couldn’t see.

12Fixating on
an agility of crows.
You knew black-
birds
would find
in this poem
a stoop.

13Uncertainty
an archipelago.
What are decisions
anyway
in the afterlife
of longing?
Only bodily
unfastenings
here on earth.

14What I want
is for you
to eat
the last cookie.

15I hope
all those beautiful
women give you
their terrain.
I turned you from
my pockets.

16A caravan
of demons
my horse-and-buggy
to heaven.

17A beer and
a Xanax
keep me
on my toes,
which are boulders
on the high-
way between
selves.

18Nagging
feeling
that some
disease
of will
lodges
inside me.

19When you come
home, the cat’s yours.

20I can’t see
the days for their
brightness.

21An orange tree
fruiting without
its leaves.
Nature’s flagrant foul.

22What I want
for you now and ever
is to wear
rain boots
on the rafters.



Alexis Orgera lives in Florida. She is the author of How Like Foreign Objectsavailable from H_ngm_n BKS, and two chapbooks: Illuminatrix (Forklift, Ink) and Dear Friends, The Birds Were Wonderful! (Blue Hour Press). Her poems have appeared in places like Bat City Review, DIAGRAM, Folio, Forklift Ohio, Fou, Green Mountains Review, Gulf Coast, H_ngm_n, In Posse Review, jubilat, Luna, and storySouth. She edits the sporadic New CollAge magazine at New College of Florida.