Monday, December 09, 2013

John Duvernoy

Something In The Way


lord  troweled  blind  spot
in this land there is no
land  undersong  the teaspoon
clawed  crawl  space

                                      you

will be there
in some hazel mess

mind tinted body of rain
letting into me


                                  troutness







John Duvernoy is the author of Something In The Way (Obstruction Blues), forthcoming from Horse Less Press in Spring 2014, as well as the chapbook Razor Love, published by Unlock the Clockcase. Raised in the hills of Central New York, he now lives with his wife in Seattle.


Sunday, December 01, 2013

Jessica Laser

Lust After Eternity


People resolving on my bed
Count, where provoked, my posts.
Since there's space under the decks,
A man can drown himself in private
Instruments leaking beats,
Wearing down his belts to loops.
But the chains you take to others
You need to go to someone else.





Builder


It was easy to know
I was telling the truth.
I had three desires—
I hid the first
Under two stones.







Jessica Laser's poems have recently appeared in Boston Review, iArtistas, and Lana Turner. Originally from Chicago, she received an MFA in Poetry from the Iowa Writers' Workshop in 2012. 


Monday, November 18, 2013

Derrick Mund

#4





like the earth keeps on

like a place

lacking its geography



because it does not have a place,

a tactic

depends on time

it is always on the watch

for the practice of everyday life

   is a consideration of place









On that note;

can this anvil be a thrush

of the laurel

opening in your sternum,

please?









Derrick Mund received an MFA from the University of Colorado in Boulder. He lives, writes and tends bar in Denver, CO where he is runs the Leon Presents a Reading series. He is also the poetry editor for SpringGun Press. His work can be found at Greying Ghost, Vinyl, Cacti and elsewhere.


Sunday, November 03, 2013

Michael Keenan

                              After the prairie fire
                             
                                                   we fell in love beneath

       A palm tree:


                              NUCLEAR GREEN thorough
                              and crystalline

                              I was a blue chartreuse.



               *






                              French cemeteries are better, aren't

                                         they, Benadryl?



                                                              "First Coast," my ass, Jacksonville, Florida.

Sharon, in the dream, talking
all night TO A SUMMER WILLOW





               *





A TREATISE ON TELEPORTATION


Out


of their cold, in
to our

dark

It was a long time ago.









Michael Keenan received his MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University. His first chapbook, “Two Girls,” was published by Say No Press in 2009, and his first book, "Translations On Waking In An Italian Cemetery," will be released by A-Minor Press in 2014. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2011 and was recently chosen by C.D. Wright to be featured in the PEN Poetry Series. His writing has appeared in FenceAlice Blue ReviewShampoo, Paul Revere’s Horse, and Arsenic Lobster, among others, and is forthcoming in Noo JournalMichael no longer drives a waffle truck in Northern Florida, but he wishes that he did.
              

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Kevin Holden

dihedral mum


wander calyx
under a sunstorm
moving out
against the wind

we would let that go
so to say a darker ruby heady dream
in bed doing it
la a reboxy latter day antiphony
seek to play that piano into mesh

sage blown in a field
meager allotrope of it
carbon in many wing├Ęd poly
flotsam cumming in sweeter radii
lighter and darker, now a now
flung up in the rafters dancing

see to it she
walk for the tower farther
in a heather waste
buried under a mound so
splay a flower out in rays
that puffball seeds updown
triple spiral staircase
seeded rear, to then let
helium flower
we a former ghost





aves


transform that space
well, you’re okay how
much money did
you get purple sage
field he’d say it
was real well I
don’t remember that fold
a flock of geese in
triangles I’ll give you
20 that would be
what the birds start with







Kevin Holden is the author of Alpine (White Queen Press) and Identity (Cannibal Books). His work has appeared in journals including 1913Conjunctions, Aufgabe, jubilatColorado Review, Typo, and Little Red Leaves, and was included in the recent anthology The Arcadia Project (Ahsahta Press). He is a graduate student at Yale University and also teaches at Bard College.



Friday, September 20, 2013

C. Violet Eaton

little flower


preoccupied with finance & theater
else with ordinary vessels
a cup or can or shoe

in a field of rye where the question
which is most beautiful
is obsolete

in its own myth
cured in the malevolent fact of thinking
crushed into a whole





in the very eye of night


the owl in the wood
or the word
in the wood

the work
of the world
& the work
of the word

the owl in the world
or the woman
in the owl

bells








C. Violet Eaton is the editor of Bestoned, a hand-sewn journal of new metaphysical verse. As Dowser, he occasionally dispatches small editions of 'hill drone' recordings from secret locations throughout Arkansas, where he also sells rare books. Recent work is available or forthcoming from Yalobusha Review, Aufgabe, Cannibal, and Colorado Review.


Friday, September 13, 2013

Feliz Lucia Molina and Ben Segal

from THE MIDDLE


Like any beginning, maybe there should be a man or boy or man-boy. Let this figure remain inconstant, a crux to argue about fiction, a place to set the scene. Imagine there are unnamable trees, a river too difficult to pronounce, mosquitoes of an alien class. Imagine everyone is extremely polite. To sense the opposite is to immediately feel betrayed. As the soft and blurry figure draws close, you realize it could hurt.





A boy approached covered in saws. He had arms like anyone else and I was not afraid to shake his hand. His saws were sharp but never meant for us. Everyone was kind in spite of the heat that pressed against our heads. The boy was a man really, but youthful. He smiled. He showed us his work.





His sculptures were long wooden echoes of himself. When asking what the figures meant, he spread apart his arms and strained to explain the Japanese schooling system, something about balance, a frozen figure locked on a long beam. I refrained from asking what two things he was balancing between or if it was a multitude of things that made his limbs grow, a dark forest garnering paranoia.





In a remote Philippine village, an elder keeps the key to the karaoke machine. The elders don’t mess around. If there’s one thing to keep safe and chaste, it’s the machine and collection of sing-a-long tapes. There is what is known as the “karaoke killings phenomenon.” Some lost lives singing “My Way” off key. Many were conceived or born while karaoke-ing.






On that night the bird and boy were practically brothers. They sat still in the same folded posture, darted their necks to pierce the dark. The bird was heavy like the seawall, the boy like the jetty. The boy was sadder, but the bird was more profound. I was like the shorter version of the bargeman who watched them from out past the waves. He was like his own father, but sweeter and a better singer. I sang equally well, as did the boy and the bird, though not that night. Then they were both more quiet than the sand.







Feliz Lucia Molina is the author of Undercastle forthcoming from Magic Helicopter Press in 2013. Other things include Hair Hearts Flip and Kim Jong-Il Looking At Things (Gauss PDF), and more things forthcoming in The Volta, So & So, Bomb, and elsewhere. This past summer she was in residence at Haisyakkei in Japan where she collaborated with Ben Segal on The Middle. She is a contributing editor at continent. and lives in Los Angeles.


Ben Segal is the author of 78 Stories (No Record Press) and co-editor of the anthology The Official Catalog of the Library of Potential Literature (Lit Pub Books). His chapbooks Science Fiction Pornography and Weather Days were published by Publishing Genius and Mud Luscious Press, respectively, and his short fiction has been published by or is forthcoming from Tin House, Tarpaulin Sky, Gigantic, and Puerto del Sol, among others.


Saturday, September 07, 2013

Caroline Davidson

I Can’t Get No.


Buckets, I shed buckets of

wet. Listen to new felon

charm, the new man words,

hunt for a face to hide in this

limestone and bug

capital city. Gulp and

consider!  Why here, him,

this capitalist non-think.


I have such thick plans for bursting—

luckily, a workload

allows for  
easier constriction.

Sell it!

Sorry, can’t talk

anything when that

glass sits

unoccupied—

when a quoted

Midwest city

shifts on its drum.

You lie

on a small stomach;

that work canoe ride did it.

I should consider the wax smell, instead

I mention Doctor Beak,

 you know, of Rome,

you know? The Plague Doctor?  You

don’t, but I say, “cloves to

defend against miasma,” anyway.

Oh, morning. The want

: to attract cynics who lift me.

Still, unable to

afford a little

guitar, one hotel

hour,

monotypes of girls

who rise from grand

black canals.







Caroline Davidson's poems have appeared in Coconut, Tinge, Sixth Finch, Gulf Stream, Robot Melon, and elsewhere. She is from Ohio, received an MFA from the University of Colorado-Boulder, and currently sings, writes, and promotes musicians in one of those places. 


Thursday, August 29, 2013

Carlos Lara

                        A THING TO PART FROM, HIS DAYS END

From star. That is to say that others are unicorn, relative
                                                      being naturalized
as people. Is to say anthology. I disresemble.
                                        conceal. I bow before the organism
that was done to Earth.

midstream
                                        And I am my own nemesis.

                                        Some luckless nectar drips and precipitates
                                        symptoms of a generation that forbid
                                        disappointment. And they

                                        Came





         RETHINKING THOROUGH
        reflect on your own lives or
        could there be a proper thought
        we (?) thought or acted
       going to goodness without telepathy
      captivated by our own acquisitions,
     accuracy. Should I have
    wasted the repertoire?
   about the girl who
  has gone rogue. A sample
 apocalypse portrait
arsonists like how
they all lose their hue








Carlos Richard Lara's writing has appeared in Lana Turner, Caketrain, Paul Revere's Horse, BlazeVox, Aufgabe, Dusie, and elsewhere. Other pieces forthcoming in other places. He received an MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University and works for the Department of Defense. He is presently gathering resources for the creation of Anonymous Energy. Reach him at closlara09(at)gmail(dot)com.


Monday, July 01, 2013

Jesse Nissim

EX HOUSES


Her infinite property seized
together with a third party.
Might morality seem to matter
more than persons. A classic
testimony; will you tell me
how gradually it has been coming.



SHELTER


I prefer waiting for you
Water in the background

Offstage a private landscape
Attraction like hero worship

Looking in the windows of houses

Where they would never be invited

I recognize the feeling
I aim the lights

In the windows
Ogle the demographics


Jesse Nissim is the author of the chapbooks, Day Cracks Between The Bones of The Foot (Furniture Press Books), SELF NAMED BODY (Finishing Line Press), and Alphabet for M (Dancing Girl Press). Her poems have appeared in 26, Barrow Street, Court Green, H-NGM-N, La Petite Zine, Mad Hatter's Review, New American Writing, Requited, RHINO, Shampoo, Women’s Studies Quarterly, and others. She teaches poetry and critical writing at Syracuse University.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Mark Dow

FORM OF WHAT

If trains or trails through woods or cortex
buckle like pavement, disrupting overlapping
underground systems of utilities, or are caused to
break by a broken conduit beneath them, or
even if they're smooth as silk, fallen to the form
of what, in hiding, they entice to and reveal,
arc or act or idea motionlessly risen and
cascading down then again to the plain,
they're what remain and remind us
which rises we walk on will remain
after we've moved far from where
we can even remember if our memory
is truly of what led us here
and then sashayed us gently down.




Mark Dow
's poems and prose have appeared recently in Drunken Boat, Mad Hatters' Review, PN Review, The New York Times "Opinionator," and Se Lo Dico Non Lo Faccio.  He is author of American Gulag: Inside U.S. Immigration Prisons. He can be reached at mdow(at)igc(dot)org.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

Gregg Murray

Nighthawk


Try as I may, try as I might,
halve this wish, bend oblique,
in tact, alight. Perched, the

murders of lampblack bust
in the foreground. Shadows
snip the narrows behind me,

valleys gallow below
in pernicious expanse. Eyes
blank, without atom, flanked

by turgid memory. In profile
I am more massive, marble
blue, vague ode to a windless

plain, to the banality
of contemplation, due
diligence, to you, my cryptic

apnea.


Gregg Murray is an assistant professor of English at Georgia Perimeter College. His most recent poems can be read in Horse Less Review, [PANK], Ayris, and Word For/ Word. Please visit his website for more information, including links to other published poems, essays, reviews, and scholarship.

Sunday, May 05, 2013

Michael Joseph Walsh

PORGI, AMOR


Weather permitting I fold myself

into you and other shapes.
I put my face

on the menu, muscles

over the fire, and it’s a good feeling

to know my life is
over your head.

Now you’re behind the lens

poking through

like a breathing
sometime crisis,

a note of pure threat

in reverse, and these are the facts

as you need them.
The birds clump up.

Your corners form

point by threatening point

and it gives me a terrible idea.
It calls for wading

into the sun,

eccentric see-sawing,

rubbing my teeth on screen.
It puts this huge question

right in front of us,

which is just what we’ve been

screaming about, the plunge,
the panting corridor

full to bursting with

gravity and

ruined conversation.
This way I can’t know the future

and won’t grow into it.

This way I let my feelings live

somewhere across town
and let a whole year go by.

They say the inanimate life is wild

and shiver-inducing.

Well it starts this afternoon.
A dream. A micro-economy

of cigarettes. 

I could have lived respectably,

making a big wax doll
and kissing it,

but now I don’t remember how.

It is the day after Christmas

inside the boiling hood of a car
and I am not to be unhappy.

I am come from the city

of the brain child.

I think I may be in love.


Michael Joseph Walsh currently lives in Fairfax, VA and is the poetry editor for Phoebe: A Journal of Literature and Art. His work is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Fence, and PANK.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Mark Bilbrey

THE DOG OF THE THROAT


Dear throat:

Given every living thing,

given the farmer’s
and butcher’s slaughter

—in you are the hog’s hearts,
the stalks, and the milk,
and the grain of the wind,
the grain heard, the flock herded,

the swallow, the holler—

what, throat, at your age,
given every sing

—and you cough and collapse
and hack clear a way
back through for so little
a cry as the flies make—

whose moan’s still born?


Mark Bilbrey drags around degrees from the University of Tennessee-Chattanooga, The University of Iowa, and The University of Georgia. He recently taught Composition, American Poetry, Poetry Writing, and Bible as Literature at the University of Wisconsin-Parkside, but presently works for the Admissions office at Claremont McKenna College. Poems from the manuscript he's currently finishing have been published in Versal, ACTION YES, 42 Opus, LIT, Ghost House, and Straylight. He lives in Claremont, California.

Sunday, April 07, 2013

Annie Won

a man is playing the moonlight sonata on the piano


there isn't really moonlight. the man has a grey 
crayon and has drawn it all over the canvas
everything muddy. you can't really see anything because
it's dark. moonlight is pretty dim. 
several years pass. the man continues until the entire canvas is 
uniform grey. then he begins to cry. it is so sad,
he says. the brine beads off the cloth. 
he has used an entire box of kleenex.
his crayon is a stub glued to the bottom of his hand.
this is my greatest masterpiece, he says.


Annie Won is a poet chemist aspiringyogi who lives in Cambridge, MA. She is a Kundiman Fellow and a Juniper Summer Writing Institute scholarship recipient, and has previously published in Shampoo Magazine