by Richard L. Matta The phlebotomy classes paid off. I can tie off and stick like nobody’s business. For so long I’ve been been pricking the needle time and time again to float above the pain of betrayal and lost love and this cold isolation. I still have the teddy bear a chick left me
by Gretchen Primack Some of your brother’s illness was there all along, some bloomed as he came of age. You came of age in the bunk below, his shrieks staining the ceiling, grease from his head staining the wall. He is still there. You climbed out how you could. You have a trace of his
by Bruce Whitacre Fine as a grain of sand yet vast as a planet, lightning eater, thermal forge, bosom of river and lake, air anchor, wind sculpture, you host the play of all, from the touchable to the unsayable. When we dug the foundation of
by David M. Katz There are so many things you do not like But cannot change yourself. You are a mule That will not leave its stall. Your bones ache. You’re when and what you are. You are no fool, But neither are you smart. You make demands, You dictate how we talk about ourselves,
by Nicholas Johnson On the beach they approach me, the stone angels, mouths a dark choir of ooo’s, mouthing words with their blank Byzantine faces so they sound like waves sucked back to the spellbound sea. Circling, they bow their heads low, halos of stone dipping. Their legend stings with reproach and disintegration, Grecian faces
by Tamiko Dooley You were sharing a room With the other girls First job, first flight Out of Narita. 6 hats perched on the tables for tomorrow, 6 skirts hanging and 6 Pairs of heels by the bolted door, Next to the mini-fridge. First night away from home. Your stomach rumbled and You remembered my
by Martin Willitts Jr A dream fish flounders in my arms, light glints off its scales like Brahams’ Lullaby. I throw it back into the memory lake, but its weight still lying solidly in my arms is my son at birth. Trees dangle their fall leaves as bait on fishing lines, a mere loon’s cry
by Richard Oyama Invisible Man meets Portnoy, the blurb raves. My property would be a multi-book deal, exclusive cable rights, Translation into 26 languages, Bridget Jones hosting the launch, Airport racks chock-a-block. On Shinkansen and D train, every passenger A-swim in my masterpiece— Brilliant mash-up of Shakespeare & Pryor. I close on A Bel-Air mansion
by Richard Levine and Michael T. Young These poems were written in response to each other, following the jazz impr0vizational style called Trading Fours. Like jazz musicians improvising, keenly tuned to the possible variations in melody and the rhythm of the melody, these poems play off each other’s words, sonics, syntax, images and/or themes. There
by Maria Masington The regal name, so important sounding, that I ordered without reading the ingredients. It’s basically chicken salad. No pomp, no circumstance, just meat, apricots, mayonnaise, served cold. I felt the same letdown on what I was told would be the happiest day of my life. Love, but no joy, just an overwhelming sense of impending responsibility to keep