by Elisabeth Frischauf As snow wanes, so my sorrow grows. Treasured scarce, too soon gone we’re forced to compress our games— forget snow boy’s eyes (the hour wan) snow girl ears—just shove in twigs! As dark cold’s steady march intrudes Quick to the hill! Slide by sled or ski short hours joy intensifies (to be
by R.T. Castleberry The map of the world has changed since I photographed you faded in its frame, ink lighter with the seasons. No Siam, no Burma, one Vietnam. Across the room your cheekbones are sharper, hair shorter, bright blonde as your lips and nails are red. Aroma from a whiskey tumbler reveals polite wine
by Jordi Alonso After William Shakespeare Stop masturbating, Henry, long enough To get yourself a girlfriend, or a wife. You’re way too handsome to just waste your—stuff. Stop masturbating, Henry, get a life! Like one who borrows, paying nothing back You’ll spend your days sore and alone—you need To start a family. You’ll have no
by Jordi Alonso for Sarah Azzara Some say they’re three, some ten—most say there’s nine: I’ll be your muse, my dear, if you’ll be mine. Transform a college room into a den of words, silk, whiskey, music, and design. Your heartbeat through a sounding box of bone reverberates through twill and skeins of twine. Who
by Jim Bohen 10 Poems You Won’t Survive . . . the chute won’t open. the oxygen is running out; it’s outer space, no rescue ship. you’re on the list from Robespierre. a new gestapo’s cornered you; it’s only a matter of time. your army lost to Genghis Khan. the bounty hunter “Never-Alive” is on
by Colette Parris First, eschew the juicer. Squeeze the lemons with bare hands let the brightness coat your fingers and burn through your many abrasions watch the steady rivulets pummel the indifferent mason jar. Next, add water – not tap spring for the swanky kind that comes in tinted bottles and smells like a ski
by Jacqueline Jules Can I touch the mail which came two days ago? Or the knob I turned after handling the box on the doorstep? Did I wash my hands for a full twenty seconds or only fifteen? Should I clean that counter again? Or the floor where I walked after taking out the trash?
by Kenneth Pobo In Heaven, Roy Orbison takes off his sunglasses. Once these perfect gates close, he’s perfectly caught. He strums a guitar, hopes for sound. Kenneth PoboKenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press, 2015), Loplop in a Red City
On April 9, 2021 Prince Philip and Earl Simmons DMX died by Ilka Scobie One became a prince by marrying a queen One rapped himself to King of the scene “The first gentleman of the land” Spawned a decaying monarchy A Ruff Ryder hip hopped, locked up, heart stopped Phillip’s fame was merely royal consort
by Kim Farrar Old diligence, basking on your enduring flagstone of self-reliance. You are a mound of patience. Your eyes masked by a yellow racing stripe, a touch of slick irony. You are a testament to the advantage of closing up. Where is the giant sloth with his great hooked claws? Or, the saber-toothed tiger