by Bill Livingston Frankie, Inmate 27388, San Quentin— wants a photo of his favorite band, Def Leppard onstage, as if it were taken last night. Isabella, Inmate 77429, Denver Women’s Correctional Facility— wants a photo of her family sitting around a big pan of their famous, freshly-made tamales that made them the heroes of their
by Richard Levine For an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: John, 5:4 I can’t baptize or immunize youwith my nod or smile, passing in thispig-pink rural town, where your skinis as double-take out-of-placeas the blood-colored tearson a waxwing’s shoulders.And you don’t need protection to walkhere, nor anyone’s
by Michelle A. Ludwig Because my bodyis a wallthat needs mending,I nod————————————–He will lay rock uponstone slick layerof whitein the space————————————–By the moonlighthis bodycocks high————————————–I watch. He fumbles.He does not know the word for 1. the thaw has cut the stone 2. moss in the damp 3. tremor in the creek Michelle A. LudwigMichelle A. Ladwig is recently discovering her new wings.
by J Chester Johnson Highlights of the Massacre and Aftermath: During the Red Summer of 1919 when racial conflict between black and white Americans flared throughout the country, the Elaine Race Massacre in Phillips County, Arkansas, along the Mississippi River Delta, stands out as possibly the most brutal and murderous conflagration. From Tuesday, September 30th,
by John Compton we are rust or maybe rustic * our hands are searchlights our lost bodies’ buoys pulled & pulled * years find us searching backwards too late to mend too stubborn * we fight the current to have space still separate: our shadows between waves John Comptonjohn compton is a 33 years old gay
by R.T. Castleberry I used another name last night, took initials and a ringleader’s bandanna into calibrations of changing moonlight. I carry knives in every pocket, a coin lucky for the week. Loose on my hand, the signet ring is a stranger’s fit. I use Crown Royal to share my voice, a shoplifter’s Mont Blanc
by Susana H. Case Sometimes on the Q train, I’m tempted to stay all the way to Coney Island, the end of the line, commuters clutching Starbucks cups under cement skies, to where love is, where I might walk barefoot on sand, or eat Russian vareniki with fried onions, watch the old people sun themselves
by Emily Browne gather to see the bones that spell out met-a-mor-pho-sis vertebrae drifting in single file stars one hundred and two feet down strewn across the bottom of a dried-up well the blonde boy without history names dead stars in the order of their collapse what songs there are are of deserts sand wind
by Carla Botha It always starts like this: with coffee somewhere — coffee shops coffee trucks ice coffee on breezy summer days on lush lawns hot July days it always starts like this it never ends like this. Carla BothaCarla Botha completed her MFA in creative writing at New York University. She currently lives and works
by Madeleine Beckman I was at the Mudd Club you were too probably watching or with another young artist high (most of us were) on something potent but not as potent as youth. I was probably dancing (what I did back then). Music was my drug, movement my master – every muscle, tendon taut, tantalized in