Sunday, March 25, 2012

John McKernan


He sleeps
On an alphabet quilt

He wakes
When the sunlight
Pours into his notebook

He dines
On a breakfast
Of memory
Hidden in shadow

He works
Walking slowly
Through my skull
Until every day is identical
The last   The last    The last

John McKernan is now a retired comma herder. He lives--mostly--in West Virgina where he edits ABZ press. His most recent book is a selected poems, Resurrection of the Dust. He has published poems in The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, Virginia Quarterly Review and many other magazines.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Erika Moya


there was a death
there always is         
& a boy with nothing in his pockets           
like he needed her
soft skin of grapefruit
a minute & it's just your face        
& she can't remember the words          
wave a hand
and she moves closer
move it twice
and one is tied down to a cell
imagine pieces
still inside you        
homing pigeons     half-consumed things
the sweet smell of garbage
women dressed like beach-side catalogues
aqua     coral     tamarind  
you can never forget this    
blue and un-fuckable moment
the real of the yellow
with its hooks all in

Erika Moya's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in forklift, OhioSpork Press, & elimae among other places. She co-curates the Stain of Poetry reading series in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn where she resides. 

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Lucas Farrell [Part Two]


Everything in silver. The dog in the road. The two dogs in the road. The limbs of the trees enrobed. In silver. The sun in silver. The tongues of the lambs lapping ice limbs, silver. There is a music in the road that the dogs dog to. That the people people to. It’s a dance I dance to. It’s silver. It goes: who is this place why did it home here, where’s the beginning, now hurt me. There is an honest to god answer. I don’t know what it is or where to find it, but I’m sensual to it. After all, we’re not going to be here for very long. Stand arm in arm with the conditions and marvel.

Lucas Farrell farms goats and the occasional poem or two. Please visit to learn/read more.

Sunday, March 04, 2012

Lucas Farrell


To birth is to take in
fresher aspects of.
An owl’s nest strewn
in a white field. My brother
coughing up sunlight
in a white field,
feathers. Five o’clock
half-grazes the snowed-in
shadows. Meaning, her kids
arrived here as into a flood.
As out of some liquid prayer.
O Gertrude, whose placenta
stretches clear
across this skyline:
I will listen listen listen
to all the unmurdered
birds. Singing in
the laboring heights.

Lucas Farrell farms goats and the occasional poem or two. Please visit to learn/read more.