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Need

By Bryce Emley

Sometimes one feels the need of ordinary things

— Charles Wright

Sometimes a filled glass makes thirst exist,

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To the Reader (Assuming She Is Carly Rae Jepsen)

By Bryce Emley

Having never met, this is what I’ve observed of you: you are not who you are, but a slant-rhymed chorus, a shared moment in a nightclub that doesn’t exist, a set of perfect bangs draped like a walrus fin across a Photoshopped forehead.

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Emeralds and Olives

By Peter Burzynski

Yesterday, I breathed in

and spit out metropolis.

Each braided glob

of fermented poutine

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OUR NAMES

By Christopher Kondrich

The past springs out of its helix and so overwhelms me

that I can hardly carve our names in water, which checks

itself for messages to deliver to the clouds.

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STICHOMANCY

By Christopher Kondrich

Running over affinities and the brittle — so close to little

that it’s dust — sheets of falling paper, I have a kind of conviction

measured in stichs, which, if we all go to our bibles, are empty

as a foot is empty until feet fill it,

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Death, Life, And Everything Else

Susan Carlson

I. Death

A bird in the house means it.
But when it slips through the vent
hides its new life on the other side of the closet wall –
its scratching and crying sounds

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make something

Giorgia Sage

I write her a letter:

smile today
because birds have hatched in this sunlight
and they are beautiful in that they are alive
as are you on this day, in this sunlight

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Meditation with Good Posture and Swine Flu

Jeff Gundy

Were we ever among the chosen? Did we seize on this place
too late, or too soon? Is all this temperate sunshine

a blessing or a threat? We all say aye when prompted, then
we mostly say nothing for a while except for the speaker,

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Epistle Presley

By Jon Riccio

Dear Mom,

Swam 20 laps in the Elvis pool today, one for each sighting, my sequins-mimicking complete. Elvis Superior says my hair has girth. And I quote, “Damn Elvis-in-Training (EIT) 2, those sideburns deserve a marquee of their own. We’ll get you a dinner theater yet.”

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The Kleptomaniac’s Giraffe

By Jon Riccio

Now that you can leave the house in a mask

we’ve got some stealing up to do. Smaller items first: aspirins,

nutmeg, peppermint from a tin. Antibodies have nothing on anti-theft.

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Excluding Small Talk

By Noah Falck

How isn’t the weather? The parking is more than a bitch, a cancerous mole. The water cooler is filled with holy water.

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Papery Bewick Swans/1956 Buick Super

By Maureen Alsop

They were those who carried light through the house — ghost-less aftereffects. I stayed silent on the telephone, and heard their voices lean against a drugstore wall(somewhere west, perhaps from Eau Claire).

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Excluding Happy Hour

By Noah Falck

The dark feels its way through the crowd, shows up after the hit & run on Main Street. Those out of breath/out of work build a river outside our window. We watch it move.

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We are stupid, meaning amazed

By Arisa White

We are stupid, meaning amazed. We are assholes, meaning we are free

to let go, away. We are jerks, meaning this movement isn’t allowed.

Body languages, coincidences are neither heads nor tails.

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Vasovagal Syncope

By Christopher Hennessy

The prick

 

As phlebotomist is

to iv drug user,

 

as tourniquet is to wet rush

of mouth to wound, flush

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Mistral

By Lisa Williams

The wind is not your companion.

Nor is it whispering anything to you.

Nor is it not whispering.

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Nucleolus

By Lisa Williams

I can grow in shadow as in light.

I can grow in shadow, I promise you.

As in light. Only the dark minds those little
fingers. Only

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from x y z & &

By Pattie McCarthy

witching hour detente                cluster feeding

co-sleeping cluster nursing witching hour

mirror neurons                witching hour colic

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Deviants

By Peter Kline

Ich allein
lebe und leide und lärme.
I alone
live and suffer and howl.

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An Encounter

By Peter Kline

There’s something not-quite-right about you, he said.
There’s something not-quite-right about the way
you stand beside me, close enough to touch me.

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Bind yourself to us with your impossible voice, your voice! sole soother of this vile despair.

—Arthur Rimbaud, “Phrases

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