INVISIBLE CITIES by Kenton K. Yee   A barkeep goes to her therapist, says: I can’t sleep—hypnotize me. So you do and take her   to Central Park and fall madly in love. She cuts tail    and you’re on your couch   rifling through web pages    pricing colonoscopies. It’s hopeless. You’re mediocre.    Your mother was

Opposites Attract by Brad Rose Like a phantom limb, I pay people to have fun on my behalf. If it’s done right, eventually, you get used to it. Whenever the music is as friendly as a pastel trench of twitching pit vipers, I’m perfectly comfy dancing inside my comfort zone. After all, veterinarians are animals,

My Mama’s Mama

My Mama’s Mama by Cynthia Atkins   Swung in trees to write notes on a branch, carved her name into the cleft where the bark Y’s into a myriad of decisions.  She wrote in the margins between the crumbs and the broom. While she was pickling cucumbers, with the juice and the seeds with what

Tell me, what is tangible about

Tell me, what is tangible about by Caleb Bouchard   Tell me, what is tangible about innumerable tabs? These days a sinkhole closet claims one foot while the other whines for Adderall. It’s like I’m in a Beckett play. Turnips, please. Caleb BouchardCaleb Bouchard is the author of The Satirist (Suburban Drunk Press 2023). His

Intimate Architecture

Intimate Architecture by Frederick Livingston     which is farther: Seattle or my own heart?   some years I visit the city more often – once for two weeks   have you ever lived in your heart so continuously?   we’re so contiguous I’d arrive in two weeks walking   our paved veins           far simpler

The Day’s Attempts

The Day’s Attempts by Winston Widjaja Lin   1)   Speechlessness demands to be verbalized.     2)   Hand sanitizer can’t cleanse the heart’s woes. Antidepressants: an option for the woes instead. Sushi lunchbag gives me solace. Hymn for my pain, please sound now. Maybe I’m in the middle of a breakdown. How can

Love Poem

Love Poem by Kurt Olsson   An artificial intelligence somewhere is writing this poem and writing it better. Images truer, the voice not so limited   and identifiably mine, and what your eyes are compared to neither hackneyed nor trite but laid out in meter and perfectly rhymed,   and, if read backward, encrypted in

The Toothbrush

The Toothbrush by Sue Guiney   By mistake I left my toothbrush in the downstairs bathroom standing at attention, awaiting my return.   All day long I remembered to retrieve it and bring it back to its home in the cup upstairs.   I remembered when I brought the dried towels from the laundry and