the trouble with marbles is the rich kid doesn’t give them back when your kid brother chucks them over
three bags full
yuk, what do they
call this stuff
*
down stream the call of a bird maybe but stop at nothing while it’s still dark
grandma
you had to be
it
*
hard up against it with nowhere else to go, there’s just the crunch of gravel
they
wouldn’t
want
to be
built
walls would
if
they
could
speak
Samar Ghose
another trash bag has been filled, but I’m no closer to relief
unbecoming you
I become
an abstract
Tiffany Diaz
cocaine
when we’re done having sex, he asks me to blow his cousin in the adjoining room…
greyhound racing life of a side piece
.
ice cube tray
two bottles of vodka
four bottles of beer
a few eggs
a bottle of mustard
filling up on emptiness someone’s leftovers
Robin Smith
some people leave you in odd ways. they just disappear from your life. like that.
irish dirge
the absence of malice
of an owl
Michael Rehling
Subway Window
The best time I had was when I forgot myself. I don’t know why I ever came back.
the subway car window
shows only darkness . . .
and my reflection
.
Dervish
I can’t figure out if mysticism is ecstatic or a sham. I go between Sufi dancing and wanting fame. Not everyone can sleep in the sand.
emptier
than emptiness:
our first name
.
Idealism
I have never been on hard drugs, but it seems like I am. The cacophony of conversations in the cafe melds into my thought process and my mental silence. I thought I was high on meditation this morning, but I guess coffee can cut through inner calm, despite our idealism.
rain or snow?
I remove myself
from myself
Nicholas Klacsanzky
through the silence clicks from the central heating ticks from the clock
black against black
in the car park a crow
pecks at the frost
*
strings and a bow that’s all it takes though maybe a hand would help and a shoulder to cry on
snowman plays Bach
a scarecrow Vivaldi
who cares
*
all my best work thrown out with the rubbish this sea of troubles
corrugated iron
a crow silhouetted
perched on a wave
Diana Webb
miniatures: 6
a flush in the hand you are holding still enough to compensate for the death that waits due north of this death
your pulse
syncopates—
scag clouds
–
miniatures: 16
taking the chance the thrill the not knowing the him the her the me or any of this dank matter held together by the weak forces that will inevitably cause our decay
twilight—
waiting to be picked up
by the blockchain
–
miniatures: 30
anyway take my trade tiny cop imposter and mute the bond yet smelted warm to the slob touch of a grasshopper
midnight sun—
grooming the coats
of roadkill
Brendan Slater
… and if he just created an artificial intelligence that was able to create an artificial intelligence
hidden
below all the snow
an old dream
Eva Limbach
They do physical exercises in the park every saturday, and every saturday I smoke a cigarette and watch them from the big window of my living room.
falling leaves
the different levels
of loneliness
Andrea Cecon
On this sunny spring day the panorama is dreamy as we approach the settlement, but the soviet gloominess of Volodarka brings me back to reality very soon…
ukrainian prairies —
our eyes
seeking eyes
Andrea Cecon
