Section » Poetry
Prince Charming by Liz Young
Ambien is so tiny, smallest of the seven pills I take, doesn’t even need water to slide down. And he is good. Bien. photo by the author The little white knight that keeps everything back blocking the synapses in my brain from one area to another with his trusty
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2 poems by Devin Thomas
KEDAGOU Sweat runs in opaque streams down my chest, Swarming in damp pools beneath my breasts. The AC’s broken. But it doesn’t even matter; the electricity’s Been cut for days now. We’re all at the whim of the weather and The ice is out. So I’m drinking warm beer in the shade of the mango tree, &
Sunday by Katelyn C. DeCecco
sundays once gloomy now replaced where’s your church? between walls, sheets, deep breaths, three square meals served hot. "lazy sunday" (photo by Flickr user David Urbanke) is your afternoon still cut grass and cold mugs? sweat
2 poems by Roberta Guthrie
Every Tool is a Weapon if You Hold it Right This is a love song for you, Ani DiFranco, from a fat old lady driving too fast on a coastal highway. For the record, Ani, I confess I was thinking of them (again) when your words came slamming through
3 poems by Douglas Cole
The Cave I use the theater as a place to duck away when I’m lost or high or too drunk to drive or otherwise can’t go home. Doesn’t matter what’s showing or what the weather is like or what time of day. I float on into the dark amniotic dreamhouse with its carpeted walls and sticky cement floors and
3 poems by William Wade
New Muse Tonight it seems that I just cannot find two words that rhyme Damned Erato, fickle bitch I’ll show you what is which Out with you like worn-out shoes I’ve found myself another muse One who likes me and comes when I call This one’s not like you at all No, not like you at all, at all My
3 poems by Louis McKee
STATE’S WITNESS Maybe I was talking too much. Maybe I let it slip– I knew somebody, somebody who could get things done. St. Brigid, go gcuidímid. I guess I used to say it, dropping names, and I heard this one from my grandmother; she
3 poems by Jacqueline Nha Pham
Flor de Muerto The last time we saw Feliciana, she was on the cover of Suicide Girls, fully nude, a tattooed silhouette with a hand-scripted neck piece that reads: “Ich Bin, Je Suis, I am.” She was my favorite sobrina. The altar is full of Aztec marigolds, from sugared skulls to candied pumpkin, and
3 poems by Mather Schneider
Idiots Who Could Spit A lot of people live out in the sticks in the middle of the desert with tons of elbow room and fresh air and the stars raining down every night. Many of these country people think there is something wrong with me for living in the city, that I am naive and could never hack it living
2009 (a poem in 4 haiku) by Ariel Starling
"Icy" (photo by Flickr user Benson Kua) I. driving drunk, old blood scent of roses and burnt flesh screwdrivers, pull’d hair. II. bald liberation, blister-heat ambiguity black-wire moon, box’d wine. III. newcity stifled, listless
