Scott Hightower Rollerbladers cocooned in earphones occupy the site. A photographer busily shoots a lanky, posing model sporting a clear and extravagant tattoo. I shoot them from overhead; from the platform where the Führer and his industrious cronies stood and spoke, were photographed. A creative break from my own taking in of the expansive scale. Like miniature, the imagination creates vastness. Millions snapped their crisp...

Jean Kane It wasn’t a marriage, you said on the phone, because we didn’t always live together. A decade together, a decade ago. Now why should it matter? Still I hadn’t fully understood the complexities of subtraction. Take away Capri, where you convinced me they filmed blue Il Postino. Forget that you asked me to go there to marry you. Cancel the grave Don Antonio who consented, without all the documente, to join us in Santo...

Jean Kane Elbow in elbow, treasure in deskwell, object in perfect embrace of your subject, Beloved. You fasten tumbled sheets, pell mell with dailiness, ordering the old wrecked destiny of hearts. The stubborn staple bites with prongs; undressed corners join one fold as if pretense alone can hold them stable. ...

Ron Antonucci The humid shadow of nightfall blankets the grass as the stem of the daffodil bows to the weight of the dark: yellow as butter, its perfumed head bends to the ground as in prayer, as if to baptize its petals in the slow-coming dawn, as if the promise to stand anew were not as vaporous as the dew. Ron Antonucci is a librarian and book critic whose reviews and articles have appeared in dozens of magazines and newspapers....

Ron Antonucci (The Old Guitarist, 1903) Why viejo, bow your head to the morning of the century? Your age? the Age? The sad crush of the hand-hewn past caught in the racket rush of a new Now proclaimed by the turn of a calendar’s page? Each stroke of the brush colors your music with a hint of rose, yet still your song plays more blue than La vie, more grim than any dream dulled by absinthe or the clutter of the scraps of Le jou… (Even...

Dennis Mahagin In a parallel universe, expanding not so very fast, Robert Frost is petrified of mowing his own grass, owing to certain seasonal allergies, and the fidelity of blades making a fragrance he longed to know, and chew on every moment turning ceaselessly into the past. Dennis Mahagin is a poet from the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared in magazines such as 42opus, Exquisite Corpse, Night Train, Juked, Stirring, 3...

Daniel Schwarz “You’re interrupting my radio,” she said, as I fell into my easy chair, turned on TV, seeking respite from noise in images. Divorce: Ours more like slow tearing of limb than surgical amputation, more drifting apart than cataclysm. Was it ever passionate attraction that tightens chest, magnetizes eyes? Rather, more moving together gradually to soothe needs, as if burying head under comforter on blustery dark...

Luke Hollis The nineteen-fifties number counters clacked as I waited for my father in the Fairmont Co-op. The heater blasted, and the man behind the counter lifted his Mycogen hat to wipe a stubble of sweat. Out of the window, I glanced at my father, wicking streams of light off our windshield with a squeegee. He glowed under the streetlights, his arm flashing like a low flame straining to stay lit in the gusts. Impatient, I kicked at...

klipschutz music by Chuck Prophet Granted, he was stranger than the lot of us. I walked his dizzy plank once in Manhattan. Tell me now can I find peace here underneath This crazy quilt of pipe and restful waste, Not giving a tinker’s dam for a skyline view, Designing my dream house one fever-night at a time? klipschutz is a poet living in San Francisco. His poems have appeared in venues ranging from Poetry (of Chicago) to FUCK!...

klipschutz music by Chuck Prophet He dusts and does windows comparison shops can bake a cherry pie served warm right from the sill His whites are white His colors sing opera In his daydreams a jewel thief of hearts. . . Dinner on the table promptly or else And a piquant aroma it is Smell those bay leaves Cover and simmer Arrowroot thickens the sauce A mad dash of Parmesan Voila! Dates glance sidelong in vain for signs of disarray and...