Like Blood

Marc Petersen The real god doesn’t demand belief. He left us on dry land in a garden and asked us how we wanted to live. Once god was like a man. Now god is like an ocean. Calm from the shore– brown pelicans, sailboats large enough for meals at tables, a tanker transporting crude oil… More

Frozen Fawn

Robert Wrigley Funny, by which I mean mysterious or eerie, the way I just happened to look out the western window of my shack at exactly that moment the morning sun— via the same opening in the heavy brush I glanced through—made the carcass shine unmistakably in the shape of what it was. Still, I… More

Proust

Robert Wrigley By the light of my reading lamp, she regards me, or regards the shape of me where I sit, the shadow I am, she being mostly blind. She’s lying on the couch, and it may be she is uncertain I am even here, for she was asleep when I entered the room and… More

Plum Summer

Stephen Massimilla Black horses have a deep blue tint to their eyes; in the plum-dark night they hang in the depths of sleep; and like the sheen of an equine haunch, the fruit’s black skin magnetizes touch, misted veil of questions broken by the press of my thumb. I would bite into this sweet, cool… More

Vowels

Stephen Massimilla -After Rimbaud A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue—vowels, One day I’ll tell your secret origins:
 A, black hairy corset of dazzling flies
 That boom around cruel stenches, Gulfs of shadow; E, candor of steams and tents,
 Proud glacier spears, white kings, shivers of Queen-Anne’s-lace;
 I, maroons, spat blood, laughter… More

Smoldering Arizona

Keith S. Wilson her wasting away like sugar-water in the smile of my arms. make-believe carillons of nectarines and pears, strike like fireflies finding mecca. i wear her like a net of fog. arizona, we are gaping through your ribcage at the stars—at our backs the crinkling giraffe of a flaming trailer—and we sigh into… More

Tinder

Keith S. Wilson there is a moment in learning a language, love, when the translation becomes a burden. the word is not there, nor the symbol—the sheep nor the razor nor the solid color blue. the sense shoots to the heart, like hemlock or prayer, and you crackle open, compliant to the godhead, and there… More

D is for De-

Mara Jebsen which we can picture arising from the mind of the woman from The Yellow Wallpaper, perhaps long before the story begins degrade defile de– A deed is what is done by the doers; who are agents of what’s intelligent, responsible and do-able in the universe. Doers: hold deeds on parchment paper, to keep… More

Chryse: Thoughts about gold.

Mara Jebsen chryselephantine: meaning overlaid in ivory and gold– chryse: a wealthy greek courtesan, whose maids bathed her from clay pots with great sponges and smearings of honey; who was bangled with gold and who brought, daily gifts of perfume to the goddess aphrodite. chrysalis: a thing unformed chrysolepic: some creature, lets say a dragon,… More