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
by Heather Dubrow early in the morning, before the heat inside is unbearable, try walking your anger on an imperious leash. Remember that our city has “pooper scooper” laws, so clean up what that anger deposits near your feet, unfortunately never in the gutters where such matter and matters belong. And when Fido refuses to
by George Perreault a palindrome it’s called a tick tock keeping time or is that something else you know an hourglass is worse than swirl when just an empty skull remains i walk and walk and seems any trail will take me home or strangers point the way though standing on the cliff a spray
by Jim Tilley I’ve been thinking of you, and I’ve been thinking about graphs, those mathematical objects composed of lines joining one point to the next. You’ve been showing me points in your life connected to other points, happenings that, taken together, define who you are, as if you could possibly be defined at all—
by Nicholas Johnson Flights to elsewhere are more necessary now that awakening itself is setback after setback as the mutual news sinks through: We both look through a single window after all. The view is bricked and bricked and capped by towers pushing back the sky. The more trustworthy, perhaps, can hold their tongues, but