by Kelly KonyaWhen he speaks of mindfulness and writes it off— / prayer is better suited but for what?— / I can tell he believes it, fathoms it clearly.
We discovered the joy of Roy White’s poetry at our sister magazine, The Lascaux Review, where his piece “Improv” snatched the air from our lungs.
Until you perceive the extreme loneliness of flannel, / And rub your hands on the paint smacked brick walls
by RC deWinteryour mother’s gardenias still bloom / on the blue porch with the faded bench
The brains sat in the circle, surrounded by string. I can’t tell you what they were thinking, being one of them.
by Mark Fitzpatrickspike-heels scuffed from the journey through night, / sway down the bitterness of this street
by Brendan CooneyFinding dusk / and crepuscule wanting, / Shakespeare came up with gloaming.
Beside the red barn / at an intersection / between today and tomorrow, / a man from Alabama plays the banjo on his knee
A matte black Maserati penetrates East Baltimore / Luke Skywalker Death Star-style, / bombed-out rowhouses speed-blurred / on either side of a cratered street.
The Dutch settlers now are / largely forgotten. The Van Burens / and Roosevelts seem almost / quaint,
Amy has a seizure right / there in the classroom, / dropping to the floor, / writhing like a fish on land.
by Joe BalazIf time is truly wun barometer / den most of dese current glitter pops / haven’t sniffed any kine of originality / since da Ice Age
Could I remember more of childhood / or its sibling, youth, / I might know what it is about capturing beauty
The worn man’s face held up / to a mirror. Turning, he writhes. / Inside is the held thing, which—at / this long distance—he is loathe / to name.