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.
For those who know East Vancouver, Triumph and / Pandora Streets run in parallel.
wake up in a dreary nuclear afterworld / another murder / another drug bust
You climbed to the top of the white pine in the / neighbor’s yard, raised your arms as if you were / Icarus without wax on your wings.
by Joan Prusky GlassI am drawing a diagram for my students / explaining that earth orbits the sun
The rain that ruined my cardboard / house has moved away, so I walk / a 3:00 a.m. street with no signs, / no traffic except for the wind, / stray dogs, alley cats, and clouds / of gnats.
Have you googled all the mysteries, Karen? / This isn’t a Pacific Theatre. / Watch the choreography of victim blood / splattered cold against the moon.
by Kate NezelekThis is the skeleton / of a different poem. / This is the fallen, breaking / ourselves over / like the wooden sticks / we once worried into crosses / so long ago.
Whatever it is, I want / to write the perfect poem. / On some moon-bitten night / I want it to escape my psyche / and impress the woman in the red / dress so she’ll pronounce it / a perfect poem, more perfect / than a tuxedo.