Shield & Song

Dan Beachy-Quick Shield You be awe. I’ll be knife. There’s an altar by the water. You be creature. I’ll be priest. Slack sails wait wind. Wind waits feast. Least blood most blessed. You be what I lack. Ceased asking why. Ceased open eyes. You Alter in darkness alone. My girl of gold-hair- Life. Be antlers… More

Shield & Song

Dan Beachy-Quick Shield No goat song. No satyr. No dancing cloven hoof. No stiff prick. No wine-drunk Silenus singing love sick. No cyclops. No shepherds. Nothing but a stick. Wreck the bronze by beating it. Throw Brick. Throw spear. Throw Shit from stables. Let worms gnaw all. Go Gather harm and bring a little home.… More

Picasso (1937)

Campbell McGrath The canvas that yawns against a wall as blank as Guernica. The hand that guides the brush that seeks a form. The name of the town toward which the bombers dove: Guernica. Cattle on green hillsides, sheep in flocks above Guernica. a wall   a city   a ruin   a trope   a painting For the… More

Mao: On The Great Leap Forward (1958)

Campbell McGrath When I announce my intention to swim in Three Great Rivers my secretaries and advisors react with outrage. The water is too dirty, they protest, there is danger from currents, and mud holes, and whirlpools. What in this world is pure, I ask them? What in this world is free of risk? So… More

No Ode

Matthew Cooperman I. The infinite caste and the soluble membrane, the papers of a wasp. “Earth has nothing I desire besides you…” Not a hand nor a bird nor a bicycle, never the one for delay… Systole: remembering the days of his youth it was ba-boom, not happening. As in square, ba-boom, the box. Not… More


Matthew Cooperman Aftermath, if we can call it that, the meaning of the blues all persons’ loves of life discerning the subject and the subject Patois, Patria, whatever— I like to worry my desire how it is pointed unpleasantly at you, an untrained voice with a country Heroes return as food, apocalypse, cars, comics, remix,… More

Snow Globe

Matthew Cooperman It was January 6, I was six years old, which would’ve made it the Sixties, and it was snowing. Snow filling trash cans like ashtrays. Mom and Dad distantly fighting the giant snowstorm. I jellied the donut in my fist and dragged my Cheeto fingers down the walls of the igloo. Quiet murmur… More