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


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is obsolete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


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


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


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


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.