Crooked Creek Rail Bridge

And then it turns cold, fall, the sky full of upside-down ships, and wind, the grass turning a bright but pale shade of green, sunlight between stark clouds, no more yellow of daffodils, some window plastic flutters, it’s coming, the wonderful specter of pothole-filled roads, a warm car, gloved hands on a steering wheel, tires… More

Used Cars

Poet and photographer Jay Nebel captures the Portland he grew up knowing in his series, “Used Cars”. More

Self-Portrait as Sparrows and Blood

For the price of a tooth, you can buy two from the boy with no legs. One to keep, the other to let. As in ancient times, the first slit open over a bowl of fresh water, the second dipped into the blood of its twin. Water beading on the sheath of its beak. As… More

Golden Age Drinking

From some neighbor’s place, “Moon River.” It trickles down the stairs & under our door. It puts chopsticks in my chignon & spritzes you with Youth Dew. In the Mansion of Many Apartments, the 60s is a locked rec room we can’t get into. They’ve changed the code. I guess we just have to stand… More

“Resolution in Loving Memory of Sky and Gooseflesh” (four selections)

Having begun now to burn bright as the fires that bore it, having, As so many things, become of what it was from the first the apparent Equal, transformed only through atomization, through display, Those distinctive signatures of the miraculous and its window dressers’ Ongoing project–Design’s gentrification of a vulgar, impoverished Real–, Which, on-schedule, over-budget,… More

Martha Serpas’ “The Diener”

The Diener, Martha Serpas LSU Press, 2015, 978-0-0871-5922-4, $17.95 I was camping at Red Rock Canyon outside of Las Vegas when I read Martha Serpas’ new collection, The Diener. One day, while hiking beneath the sandstone walls at Willow Springs, I noticed through a thicket of desert willow and rabbitbrush a petroglyph staring back from… More

Jay Nebel

Jay Nebel discusses his art, his influences, and his new collection “Neighbors” in an interview with Tarn Painter-MacArthur for Fogged Clarity. More

Michael McGriff

Poet and author Michael McGriff expounds on his obsessions and explains why more people should listen to the music of the late Jason Molina. More

There Is No Question

Mark Yakich Mother thought grief would be romantic, Like euthanizing a dove with one solid crack. It was like having to clutch an unclothed Baby who urinates from both ends. She imagined she’d shave her head And run off to a seasonless island In the Pacific. She just Drove to the coast and wept In… 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

Review: Peter Covino’s “The Right Place to Jump”

Scott Hightower The Right Place to Jump, Peter Covino New Issues, 2012, $15 The Right Place to Jump is the second book from Peter Covino. In Cut Off the Ears of Winter, his first, Covino staked out considerable space for themes connected to the anxiety of desire: mortality, class, language, the ineffable, decency, and fair… More


Jay Nebel Over blankets and sex, over money, the dog and goldfish, my wife and I are at war. We’re at war and the world’s at war, three of my neighbors angry at the local church, making signs, a high school classmate at war with the Feds, his brain a brilliant purple mass of PCP.… More

New Grammar

Elyse Fenton I’m just at the beginning of the bell curve when teenagers turn the staticky bullhorns of their disbelief my way. I understand they is the new he or she like I understand the comeback of the fanny pack. One part bemusement, two parts derision, three parts stubborn resistance. This morning I stood under… More

South-Facing Window, Four A.M.

klipschutz Sirens advertise their right-of-way on empty streets, guards conjugate in workbooks, lobbies glisten. Glass shatters, voices carry, pressure drops. Entire buildings perfect the parlor trick of vanishing in fog. Found, they’re gone again, like that. And so are you. Finger moon deveins the dark as orbits cross. Not a hiccup, not a hitch, the… More


Bruce McRae The weather promises to change from man to animal. Today’s forecast is absence, with a chance of longing. In the east, flying horses and a scattering of flowers. From the west, incursions, barbarous hordes, black ice. The weather changes its mind, abandons its principles, is forced to choose between darkness and light. They’re… More


Scott Hightower “a murder of crows; a hell of guns” Oh, Vatican, have your bank clear our way to guns! We need them in our beauty shops, our schools, our class rooms, for our children with soft bodies. If we are going to transform our way of life into an arsenal, we need guns in… More

the waves receded in december

Raena Shirali & abandoned the jellyfish on the beach. no messages were etched in the sand— no lovers or children dragging twigs through the grains. we were left with cargo ships rounding the harbor, left standing amidst a plume of the dead, sunlight stinting off bodies the color of melting glass. i admit it was… More