By Juan Carlos Flores
Translated by Kristin Dykstra
The skater of death flies across the avenue, between the cars and the passersby, today I just want to look, at the skater of death or the skatedeath of door, rustic pig’s eyes, there’s a boy looking, there’s a boy whose name is Rachiel.
By Juan Carlos Flores
Translated by Kristin Dykstra
She’s singing old boleros, this isolated person, according to medical files, is on the edge, and if the men of the new stone age approach, it’s only to unload their obscure packages
By Juan Carlos Flores
Translated by Kristin Dykstra
Don’t cry for me if the police arrest me, breaker of the law, that was before I knew Jah.
By Juan Carlos Flores
Translated by Kristin Dykstra
Coin-swallowing machines, though in his palms no lines appear, his
future can’t be read, he’s a good person, he should speak here
By Pedro de Jesús
Translated by Dick Cluster
Feldspar. Tiger. Meekness. Scaffold.
With words at his disposal, a poet
can play fast and loose, ape dementia,
By Chris Campanioni
She was rising, bird-like
On the first page, the first
Letter I read, the first line
But we never cut the other kites
By Chris Campanioni
My father learned English
On the radio—
Sing-song Santiago Spanish
“Rocks Off,” The Rolling Stones
By Fina García Marruz
Translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
There’s no time to start from the beginning, everything
in order, shamelessly, in the elemental, candid blue.
There’s no possible lucidity, the circle’s closed off
its horizon where humble paradises swaggered.
By Anton Arrufat
Translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
What do you think of the word metal?
Do you like it?
If I say,
the metal of your voice,
do you like it?
By Víctor Rodríguez Núñez
Translated by Katherine M. Hedeen
1 [158 Campanario Street]
first and foremost to scrape
everything you see
the homeland’s in the claves
the city rooster waking up traffic
By Jo Reyes-Boitel
a lot of our history is gone, let’s be honest –
when your family has been in four countries in three generations
the nonessential is quickly cast off
By Jo Reyes-Boitel
here I am: grafted from the resilience of a 4’7” matriarch traveling 46 hundred miles to freedom
island sensibilities moated by Texas deserts mud pies and dark nights scented in pine
cold Minnesota Septembers
By Satoshi Iwai
I stole a giraffe from the public zoo and hid it in the kitchen of my apartment. The kitchen was so small that the giraffe had to stick its head out of the window.
By Satoshi Iwai
I love her like a pretty chick, but she dumps me like a rotten egg. She tells me that she is going to marry a young and rich anaconda. After her departure, I watch “Anaconda Mating” on YouTube.
By Satoshi Iwai
Don’t tell me anything about rainbows, because every rainbow belongs to someone else’s summer. All I have is one afternoon and seven cigarette burns on my bare stomach.
By Jessica Murray
To drive north, alone, toward the ghost
of the Laurentide Icesheet retreating
through boreal forests, the long miles
spending themselves
By Theodore Worozbyt
stepped onto the sloop Velveteen, where nightly
coffee rounds gray into buttered wood
and the glares are both less and more
accurate than the sum of my fingerprint:
By Evan Hansen
Birds silently froth the hills
In a dream or film about how
Life is beautiful in some near
Elsewhere. At work all day
By Evan Hansen
Market forces of evening. I place the infant
in a vibrating chair purchased at Target.
Plush monkeys encircle her. A tinny song plays.
I tell her welcome to Monkey Island.
By Jen Schalliol
Or so she says. The poem’s a lie
of green, an assurance of a clean
bill of health, a hope to carry on
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 Scott Beal
they didn’t know my last thought
was thank god they weren’t in the car
that I thought of the times I’d cut off a Buick
with their bodies buckled in the backseat and seen EMTs
By Scott Beal
were they relieved that my suffering was over
had I told them my one great fear
was being unable to remember or think
in the way that was mine
By Scott Beal
they had to go on doing algebra
and taking out the trash
there was no patch they could point to
and say that’s where he lies
By Simon Perchik
With your mouth closed
swallow though this rain
is already rain and further on
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