By Jen Schalliol
turning white with light or milk
the color of music says one
and another says: obscene
the moon’s white face. this year is white
By Jen Schalliol
turning white with light or milk
the color of music says one
and another says: obscene
the moon’s white face. this year is white
By Jessica Murray
For a sign, a pinhole in the firmament,
and me the open eye.
Peace without stasis, each mellow
fruit
eaten.
By S Cearley
S Cearley is a former AI researcher in computer-derived writing and professor of philosophy, currently living eight inches above a river watching ducks and herons in between salmon runs.
Diana Arterian
A BOAT OVERTURNED AND THE LIVES OF A
YOUNG MAN AND A GIRL LOST.
JUNE 21, 1879
In an instant
the boat overturned
By S Cearley
S Cearley is a former AI researcher in computer-derived writing and professor of philosophy, currently living eight inches above a river watching ducks and herons in between salmon runs.
Diana Arterian
APRIL 29, 1882
Kennedy was rowing along
when he noticed an animal
floundering near the shore
He quickly fired at the monster
Diana Arterian
JUNE 15, 1884
Laborers were leveling
a mound of earth
on the shores
of Onondaga Lake
Diana Arterian
Several Persons Believed to Have Been
Drowned in Lake Onondaga—Much
Damage to Property
AUG. 28, 1895
And wind and rain
of terrific violence
By Ron Riekki
I’m sure he’s never murdered anyone.
He has a book in his pocket and that’s a good sign.
The snow is falling on him, so he’s not a ghost.
He looks cold, so he’s human.
By Chris Carosi
it was made to prove something
to throw away was to have it first
to be a trap kid in there
shouldering forgiveness
By Chris Carosi
a word works through soil, a transit breaching blood
cell, magnetized as message
wait for me to die and you will know death too
shares a brackish voice
By Lauren Camp
As a girl, I fell many times, my uncertain bones bending out, a potential for perfection lost in a clumsy arrangement of body parts linked with diabolical thought. A finger, a finger, an outline, a draft, the fascia, the proximal row of a hand, ligament, nerve, and each carpal bone to my radial-ulna fitting abruptly,
By Lauren Camp
Winter’s poor faults brought me here:
one quarter mile off Crocus,
where we talk about small birds and the jewels
By Lauren Camp
Trees gaze down through gauze of August.
I drive the thermal air on a narrow road rimmed
with orange barrels. Many dashes disappear beneath the car.
By Paula J. Lambert
a pecha kucha for Evelyn
i
All those times Insight broke like a fever and
I called it something Other than what it was.
Oh, Houston! Mission Control! Looking down
By Amy Wright
On film, technotopian trails
streak the air in soft neon waves —
synthetic Beamer Bees designed to replace
pollinators who fell
By Melanie Dunbar
Dear Grandpa,
You know by now I took the train. The smoke in my room was really steam and the train was a locomotive. I borrowed the mantle clock your father carried from the old country.
By Jennie Malboeuf
Within a week of seeing
seven stars in the moon’s
thick ring, it started to snow.
By Jennie Malboeuf
We step off the curb into
glass diamonds. Confetti
cuts our feet; the drunks
mistake the street
for a trash bin and we crunch
By Alex Rieser
I.
text as firm congeal
top of yaw. image pursue
within text. rapture and yaw
By Alex Rieser
I.
mass and ball of crystal excuse
under light. record quiet
out of beauty. learn below but brought
By M. A. Schaffner
Now, she says, with that little twitch of her hips.
You didn’t want to go there but you did.
It was the Marquesa de Pontejos, not her pug.
By Craig Martin Getz
If I were color blind, truly blind to color,
I would just see the cock, the heavy outline black,
the balls’ forest razored curve
coming out of chiaroscuro.
By Arkava Das
the room ballasted with sunset
sings
not everything troubles you as soon
as you forget it
By S.D. Lishan
Prelude:
Ah, here we are, wild puppy eyed in the far flung of us.
Like the others, I, too, fling me sad-eared to the one we talk to,
And asked for a healing wind in the once of my needs.
“Let me have a week, just one, of true-work,
By Madeline Vardell
Every Wednesday, before lunch and post-Algebra,
they wipe the red gloss from their lips and put
the Lord in their white socks and shiny black patent
Mary Janes: a billow of plaid-striped corduroy.
By Elizabeth Savage
a charmed life
let him keep it
& riches of love
suffering misses
let him
keep it
By Madeline Vardell>br/>
Rooted at her center life
unmoves but all
around swirling me
shrapnel , branches. Where
By Elizabeth Savage
Talk that Roman talk
When in October
scatter candy corn
no backward look
When roads divide
By Janice Worthen
We approach things at angles
because a direct approach is an insult.
An ear is a temple,
anger a bird pulling out its own feathers
on a branch consumed by fire,