by Scott Thomas Outlar I told my love that I’m a mad prophet she smiled & said I know & my admission/confession is not great to those who already reflect me but these are usually the types of energies/conversations better kept under wraps in polite society or at least toned down with a pocketful of
by Rosalie Hendon My hands smell of yeast. When I go to sleep I dream of bread, wake up hungry. I store baby clothes under my bed. I have no children. My roommate wants to plant a raspberry bush in our yard. I don’t know how to tell her, I already see our hands bloodied
by Allison Collins If I had guilt I would unzip the suit of my skin, undo the hooks, the eyes, cull out the soft matter, dismantle the bones and soak those relics in a bath of bleach, clattering and sudsy. And, like a toddler heavy with building blocks or a clumsy surgeon in that game,
by Lawrence Ernest Bridges I settle in my chair slowly, locks clicking to the infinite and everything’s right with the world. My shadow-body is carefree, pulsing out of me with my living body’s outline, in waves. The little I’ve done doesn’t worry me, yet done a little still and morning isn’t here yet. I raged
by Bruce Parker Years ago while I was in boot camp, my mom hocked my typewriter to buy vodka. I saw it again in the Taos home of D. H. Lawrence, quiet, on a little desk in a corner, the shock— That’s my typewriter and awe of the famous writer using “my” machine. More years
by Liam Strong in elementary i couldn’t contain my cursive between dotted lines, the blue-white high- way strung with prayer beads. like my legs informing that yes i know what it means to curl my tongue yes i know the hand bears its own dialect yes i know how the abdomen of a
I met Maureen Holm more than 20 years ago when I submitted a prose piece to BigCityLit. She was the prose and essay editor. She called me on the phone (!) to tell me that she thought my story would work better in a poem. I was not writing poetry then. She directed me to
TO THE LIGHTHOUSE by Nicholas Johnson All families have their lore, their mystery and nostalgia to put on movie screens. My Lady of the Cinema still screams out for revenge, love, abuse; she leaves me to contemplate the ruins, the old house and sea. Where is the bright light sent to intervene and save us
by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright Evening stoops under its sodden shawl. A siren broods; its caterwaul snarling over blackened roofs. Someone’s on the run. Wet tires whisper to Avenue C. “I’m lost without you,” they swear. I wanted to be a matador in Manhattan, dancing with horns. I wanted to be a genie smoking in your