poetry: results 73–96 of 735

Peaches, How to Eat  by ELIZABETH HUGHEY

2 October 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

In hooves, trying to get inside the apple without

breaking the skin, or inside the Orangery at closing,

oh, and in that, a hymn containing the words

taken from the antique store down on 2nd Avenue.

Contextualizing the Situation Is Not Always a Valid Solution.  by LINDSEY WALLACE

29 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

Read your hand in the mirror:

this is your only chance

to be the victim.

Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?  by EMILIA A. PHILLIPS

26 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

I never win at the game Hump the Hostess

or Musical Beds. Martha says I don't

have any rhythm or know how to mix

a drink. Last week I sloshed in

rubbing alcohol to see if she could feel

a difference, but she just asked if I went

cheap on the brand.

a thin skin  by PATRICK M. PILARSKI

20 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

of snow dust

on pigeon shit

at the end of another year

all the watches, unwinding  by PATRICK M. PILARSKI

17 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

their inevitability, like frost

or pigeon calls in morning air.

there is a turning point

with snow, swooping

Nocturne with Missing French Jet Two Days Before My Mother Leaves for Paris  by KEITH MONTESANO

11 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

And so again we're left with speculation. Luck, destiny, fortuity.

           The mouth makes its sounds, curls ever so slowly, forming

                      into horror or love, while lightning in the sky, if you're a passenger,

cannot be described, because those moments are always

           your last. It's 3 a.m. Monday morning…

Nocturne: Last Words  by KEITH MONTESANO

8 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

Smoke from the pipe of our lungs, unreaching, shifting molecules

           to air and back

to smoke, will leave us, in the midst of this city, quietly to drown

           among our past—

suicide gun blasts through walls, our waiting and heart-stopped nerves

           then quickening,

then beginning their stretch…

Nocturne with Perpetual Downpour  by KEITH MONTESANO

5 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

Because I have waited too long to ask why we deserve this,

           it keeps pounding harder than we ever imagined. Awnings

                      have collapsed over every balcony, cars start floating

gently down the streets, and even rats nestled in the sewers

           have already drowned. But still there's no flood, no looting.

Nocturne: Inexcusable Apologia  by KEITH MONTESANO

2 September 2009
Vol. 9, No. 3

Too late to think about tomorrow, I do it anyway,

           and while I'll still be sleeping, your drive across I-95

                      I always picture, every situation different. First

a man in a car with a siren—flickering and silent—

           wearing away its dark black paint. He stops, tells you

                      to get out.

Shelter #4: Last  by CAROLYN GUINZIO

30 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

Guided by the memory of light.

            Don't forget not to speak of

            what should stay on the ground

between us. A heron lifts off the limbs,

tucking its feet beneath it

Shelter #3: Felled  by CAROLYN GUINZIO

27 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

even the

most meek

puddle where

life worms

its way

into being


Shelter #2: Frame  by CAROLYN GUINZIO

24 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

It's warm in the frame, under the lamps.

No one speaks because

                        keeping warm.

To speak takes it out of the body.

Shelter #1: Husk  by CAROLYN GUINZIO

21 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

We placed it on the ground between us.

After it fell again, we rebuilt it.

The wind keeps gusting it into the barbed

fence. Holes are torn roughly, not cleanly

punched. We have to keep this between us…

Bird Creek, Alaska  by CINTHIA RITCHIE

14 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

Spruce trees smell

wicked at night

we lie in lavender

twilight we think

we are so clever with our pale

bodies and sly-tongued minds

Tofu and Potatoes  by CINTHIA RITCHIE

11 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2
prose poem

It is evening and the dark climbs through the window, sits down beside us on the couch, demands the remote control. We curl our legs together, socks to socks, my hand pressed on your lower belly. "What if you suddenly stopped breathing," I say, imagining your death, the funeral, the useless black shoes. I smile, bury my nose in your dirty dark hair.

Not Noon, 1904  by NORMAN DUBIE

2 August 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

Poincaré sits in the turning dark

of the stairwell

folded in a thin nightshirt

eating a dry husk of carp, mostly

all huge brass head, eyes


with declining bones like a harp.

An influenza is in the suburbs.


30 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

Because we stash words

in our temporal lobes

in pairs—best friend with dog,

dog with cat, catatonia with last Friday, fried

eggs with broken plate

we see associations before we say them: …

Fast Forward  by KAREN SCHUBERT

27 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

You couldn't talk to me, you said, meaning

you couldn't hear, which was ok since

I'd lost my voice. That was before I started

singing, pushing the vacuum ahead of me

like a seed spreader, tethered to the stereo

by headphones. You were absent enough for me…

Pensacola Beach, March  by JOSEPH P. WOOD

20 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

If my I put my ear to Daisy's

I hear her grape-sized heart

& she, tiny love, knows not


pumping erratic

milliliters of blood

the unfocused, gray cloud

in the left sliver of her right

iris, a mumbling

Starlings  by KATHY DAVIS

15 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

A black hand across the landscape, then thousands

rummaging the corn's winter wreckage

for plunder.

They rise and clap, swarm, recede. Black is one

of only three proper colors…

All I want is a lot of babies and a lot of money; you made me so pay it  by DANIELLE PAFUNDA

8 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

The fuckwad has her caged rat-style. He sends babies chute face,

chute face. She chews face, face plowed, baby after baby.

He box checks, he checks box, he slots baby, he plows.

Then cokes. He offers to coke her. She nuzzles

a baby, opens her face.

When something is rooted in you, it will be difficult to root it out; you are a fungal-faced pig, your own nose is a blight:  by DANIELLE PAFUNDA

5 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

The farmer sends you and your children into the woods to puke

up his property. He says, you're wolf meat, now. You're dead

to meat. Hoof it pinkling mama, if you like, but beyond

that forest lies the forest, and beyond that, a tight shut eye

nothings you flat.

The next time you survey your land, your land will accommodate your skull  by DANIELLE PAFUNDA

2 July 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

Take note and heed. My drab elastic shackle worried the bone

to dart. Poison tipped present day cervix fasting, preparatory.

Ugly Park looms, and I file its gates. Specific access: trees

denied, fur denied, zing and whoosh denied, all water denied.

Dark denied, particle-free oxygens denied, nutrients denied.

Girls, boys, tom-toms, flowers, spoons, ink, porcelain, fruit,

tone, flint, exploration, and tonic fetal compass denied.


29 June 2009
Vol. 9, No. 2

Now I understand why. Someone turns loose the winds on me

and I'm a fountain of fire, someone tosses me into the sea

and I float in a boat of flames, someone pushes me under

and my lungs implode like hydrogen blimps. Every bronchiole burns…


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