Tuesday, November 04, 2014

Shamala Gallagher


For months I eat only
apples I keep
them in my closet       I return palming

the oil of
their smell

Deep skins red as between the teeth

Now you lie in his arms
proud as a stretched leg

Listen it is near midsummer and our friends are fucking
in the twilight       smoking
in the brambles       is it getting too late

If I eat only apples       I am not thin yet
will my bones be like the edges of a bowl


The radish
glares and thickens

on its red
hidden string

but who knows
if the beets



cheeks stained

whole and blood-

as my
brute ache

for you
in the night

Shamala Gallagher's chapbook I Learned the Language of Barbs and Sparks No One Spoke is forthcoming from dancing girl press in 2015. She holds an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers and lives in Athens, Georgia.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Valerie Hsiung


Amid fledglings,

Amid fledglings,

the wind pumped

cloud. Amid

mechanical fledglings,

the human

hands mimic

an eye amid

clouds. Amid infidel



Amid fledglings,

the edge of

cloud mechanized


I want to shower

I want a shower

trial of___

trial of ___

trial of___

trial of___

trial of ___

trial of___

trial of___

Amid fledglings,

this wo’ld,

that wo’ld,

not a foe of love

indifferent or

infamilial. Amid

infidel clouds,


Valerie Hsiung's two books of poetry, incantation inarticulate and under your face, were both published in fall 2013 by O Balthazar Press. Her first full-length song record, IS, or, The Moon Is Not Safe, will be released end of 2014 with an EP premiere at Shapeshifter Lab in November. Latest and notable poetry and writing can be found or is forthcoming in print and digital with American Letters & Commentary, Apiary, Denver Quarterly, Diode Poetry Journal, EOAGH: Journal of Arts, Hayden's Ferry Review, LOVEBook, New Delta Review, the PEN Poetry Series and VOLT. A child of both the Bluegrass hills of Cincinnati and the Mojave desert of Las Vegas, Hsiung now lives and works around Brooklyn and Louisville.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Gregory Lawless


Do you know or have you ever heard of the Rhetoric of Sally?

She’s the dream bucket who works at the Eidetic Mall.

No one has branches like her, such cognitive glue.

The Gnostics hid their coins in her like a bad cave.

I mean:

Remember the bully with the “magical matches”? The one with the mesh hat, who smelled like bait and orange soda and punched like a bookcase?

The one with a black guitar named Antelope?

Remember his chicken wing tattoo?

The one who could only sleep if there was a motorcycle within 50 feet of his hut?


He’s married to Sally!

All he does now is sleep and wonder.

And sleep and sleep and sleep and eat and sleep.

Gregory Lawless is the winner of the 2013 Orphic Prize for Poetry and the author of Dreamburgh, Pennsylvania (Dream Horse Press, forthcoming). His poems have appeared in such places as Pleiades, Third Coast, The Cincinnati Review, The Journal, Sixth Finch, Gulf Stream, The Bakery, and Verse Daily. He lives in Waltham, Massachusetts.

Wednesday, September 03, 2014

Tod Marshall


Bullock, buculus.  Castrated young bull. 
Coiled horn.  The long light shakes across the lakes:    we buy in bulk.
Give me that oral tradition, that ancient wordy call: 
gums, tongues, and mouths mouthing, eat, sucky, talk.
Embouchure—outmoded by the carefree trumpet:
toodle-oo to Gideon, Joshua, and Saul.  Infinite
surface, finite volume: it might 
be well to mention here that a bugle is sounded, 
not blown.  O coppery Butte, O superfunded
blunder, zinc-y need.  A pit is the earth stripped.
Regimented troops need their toots: Assembly,
Dismiss, Reveille, and Tattoo; Knock Off Bright 
Work, Man Overboard, Bayonet, Abandon Ship. 
Sayeth the Boogie Woogie, The Boy, sayeth me.

Tod Marshall lives in Spokane, Washington. His third book of poems, BUGLE, is forthcoming from Canarium Books.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Linnea Ogden


Another meeting I pay rent for.
I come in and wait as something withdraws from me.

I approximate a familiar, half-remembered recipe. Upstairs
a gasoline smell enters the tube piping insulation in

from the truck outside. I sit in the corner with no enthusiasm
about the corner. My appointment has been rescheduled.

A still flat window whose light changes constantly.
I print maps. I want to be asked about my car and the bird

I saw from it. Rustling the leaves of my actual house.

Linnea Ogden is a poet and teacher living in San Francisco. She's an assistant editor at Lost Roads press; her work has appeared in typo, 1913: a journal of forms, Conduit, and others.

Wednesday, July 09, 2014

L.S. McKee



Nevermind the haze
nesting in the valley.

Nevermind the tallest flag
by the river dimmed—

the woman will return home,
bragging how she alone

glimpsed a binocular flash
from a lookout’s shack—

how she saw his eyes
look once then

cut away while the river
buried the sky

a bit deeper.


Here, the world ends,
she moans,

as a spindle of light
in the land-mined grass

bends and gulps like a heron.
Every tourist here is hawk-eyed,

cradles visions
in their blinking cameras:

curl of barbed wire,
nod of a bored soldier

thumbing through the day’s
instructions as

his loosened helmet
slips in the heat.


She strains
to memorize the land

beyond him—
the other country

borderless below
a dismantled bridge—

somehow familiar
and yet like nothing before

or since; a hill is a hill
she thinks. The jackknifed

grass; everything bends
familiar. Once before

she has seen it, the place,
though not here,

where lands blurs
so near,

only the birds
carve through.

L.S. McKee's poems have appeared in Gulf Coast, Blackbird, Ninth Letter, Indiana Review, The Louisville Review,  New South, and elsewhere. She received her MFA from the University of Maryland and a Wallace Stegner Fellowship in poetry from Stanford University. Originally from East Tennessee, she lives in Atlanta and teaches at the University of West Georgia.

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Andrew Nance


Sometimes ill-lit
backlights behind
the eye, what we used
to think was primacy
not of feeling but
thinking is fodder.
We are dehydrated 
again, the dog wants
in, and light on hand
equals lead in
its stream. We used
to be it, not in
terms of but
terms of breath.

Apostrophe Switch

Listening to the lights'
fault fold over me,
you were here once
so stop me if I'm saying
it right twice, truth
modulating as I pass
over New Guinea,
Sana'a, or listen
to visible suspensions
of carbon speak freely
and say my rights
are a hagiography, naked
graphemes of my
prerecording all intaglio-
blue bled-out green.

Andrew Nance’s poems and reviews have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Better: Culture & Lit, Colorado Review, Guernica, LinebreakNarrativeThe Winter AnthologyPetri Press, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Company. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he will begin a PhD at the University of Georgia this fall.