Category Archives: Poetry

Jake Sheff A Confluence of Maple, a Resurgence of History There was no way she evolvedIn a world without clouds,In a world without hippiesLike Euler’s Equation, Stalingrad,The daily Metamucil tablet to keep youRegular; it’s my subjective truth,My requisite canyon that … Continue reading →

Gretchen Tessmer The Right Hand of Starlight she raises her palm see these lines? not one without stories they fill every deep trench and shallow rivulet  of flesh and blood and ink— yes, ink spilled everywhere across space, across time … Continue reading →

Kathleen S. Burgess According to Lonely Planet               neither tourists nor local laity may ascend the staircase             to the doors of Iglesia de Santo Tomás. Eighteen steps                         represent the number of months in a Mayan calendar,                                     … Continue reading →

Gregory Kimbrell Poison Fruit High, electrified walls of the arena remain faintly red as he wipes away blood. Today, a thousand hairless apes murdered each other for sport; the victorious shipped off to be rendered into elixir. The keeper has … Continue reading →

Isaac E. Payne The American Drive-Through Revisited ‘Tween the omnipresent screen and a predilection for noise, humankind lives with the lusty desire for newer techs, fewer mechs—         for the American dream         and a cheeseburger. Jarbled junk from a speaker box … Continue reading →

Cyn Kitchen Through the Tattoo Needle of My Mind glaring of cats, glaring lazy hiss of apathy, apathetic drunks drunk on arrogance, drunk on butterflies, passed out on a hot sidewalk hogging up the light. bouquet of cats from Ohio, … Continue reading →

Tristan BeiterMother of Cacti Flora: I was the mother of cacti;I slit my sole and stepped on the sandand I danced. I gave my tearsto the desert, bore lupinerising its purple-belled shaftfrom the dust that filled the skywith yellow wind-drift, … Continue reading →

Nicole Melchionda The Bone Palace               for Ashley Palis   “As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.”      —Anne Sexton You are volcanic. Maybe it was the taste of silica or broken promises that were so alluring. You … Continue reading →

Ann K. Schwader My Father Hears the Aliens   My father hears the aliens all night beneath the voices on his radio that fill the sleepless hours, set things right from coast to coast as only call-in shows can do … Continue reading →

Rob Griffith Entanglement   Behind him in the night-house, his family sleeps, their tidy brick address, a kind of riddle in the dark, a Schrödinger’s box that holds a blessing or disaster in its depths. He knows he only needs … Continue reading →