We must become more
than the dirt
& the double shadow
of our shuffling times
& if it means we must
build a theater
to tell each story about
each fire that took a silo,
then that’s what it means.
Darren C. Demaree is the author of six poetry collections, most recently “Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly (2016, 8th House Publishing). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.…Read article
No way our town is ready for the future. We’re already passed up, but get ready to be literally wiped out—I mean actually obliterated. When the future gets here.
At the Ravioli House with my new wife. God, she’s got the best skin. You’ve never seen skin like this before. Sometimes I have to stop thinking just to touch it. Everything goes away when I focus in on how real it is.
“What are you thinking about, Ansel?”
“I know you’ve got something going on up there.”
I haven’t told her about how screwed we …Read article
Or tight clothing if your mind is well and fully dressed
The wrong is with the women and then men with unclothed minds spilling a fill of nonsense
The women of my culture would bear their erect breasts to sun freely
Knowing that the men of our clan see their children born naked
One’s attire matters nothing of any percentage to a pornographic observance, it is already filled with stripped contemplations
The question I will to ask is;
Have you ever
A comet needs to take us out
For light is the law
And we’ve lost it
We’ve gone blind
A planet full of darkness
The roads broken up
Painted over rust
Been swept beneath the carpet
Our pride has gotten the best of us
Seas riddled with plastic
Radiation in our blood
We must submit
That history is in the dust
We are watchers of disconnect
Occupants of disgust
Our existence bred out of love and trust
These ideas are endangered now
Like arcane concepts
We chose the path of least resistance
The path of spoon-fed …
In the wandering ways, the lightening
flashes grey and the farmhouses are hollowed
empty like a spent bullet. The corn stubble is
sharp for the deer, who step judiciously between
the broken stalks. Then the wind presses against
the grass, and the trees bend low, in prayer to a whisper,
their branches stroke the clay dirt. The frayed
hammock swings empty.
Vicky MacDonald Harris was born in Windsor, Ontario, where she received her BA in English Literature, but now calls Lincoln, Nebraska home. In print, her poems have been published in the NaPoChapBook collection published by Big …Read article
The persimmon is a strange little fruit—eat it too soon and you will involuntarily pucker, the tissues of your mouth and tongue literally contracting from the astringency; wait too long and the flesh becomes soft and bruised, clearly past it’s prime. Florida is a cornucopia of weird produce: lemons nearly as big as a baby’s head, and supersized avocados too, wild grapes with thick leathery skins and every citrus combination imaginable, but the original strange fruit is a thing most Floridians know nothing about, or feign ignorance if they do. While the poplar tree isn’t particularly common on …Read article
“Land of the people” – Apache
The flying now exist – no more for man –
– Sonnet V, David Humphreys
Dear flying now, another morning of air
held within, fraught in the Crowd racing through
trains, towers, time. Above, below, everywhere
really: Air-less, boxed hearts, hive minds.
What’s become of placid water, free air,
of Oyate Tamakoce? (Apache word, reclaimed)
Sacred buffalo, gone (also gone: circle of chants
about the single descent of an autumn leaf).
In its place, life drinking fossil blood. Water in bottles.
And I—the observer—only eye the interstices
of our now…
I love you— but I hate you.
You’ve always been so refined, and I like your aroma;
though you’re killing me, I have fond memories,
of your high octane brew; forget about CO2, oil spills—
gasoline, you and I have gone so many places.
We crossed the Kansas plains in my Triumph,
black oil pumps rocked gently,
sucked fossil fern from bedrock,
raw crude that took us
all the way to California.
You had pumps at every crossroads
I’d gas up and drive to escape city pollution
watch purple sunsets through dust and ozone haze
Janis Joplin singing…
We’re going home for the holidays in our December issue. But what is home? And how do we get there anyway? Our crop of writers is conflicted about the nostalgia of homecoming and the sometimes dark places the journey can take us.
Winter in the city can be cruel. The writers in this issue expose us to the small and large sadnesses of people we pass in the street, whether it’s a woman wandering, lost in the throes of dementia, or a brutal subway accident that we wish we’d never seen. A bystander exhorts us in one poem, …Read article
At five o’clock on a Tuesday I met my friend Mark at Piccadilly. He’d been in the Scottish Highlands; I’d been in Paris. He still talks about how strange it was to be in another country and to see my young face appearing like an apparition out of the crowds. Under Cupid’s aimed bow and arrow, we stood with our arms around the girls we loved back then, as a polite English punk with spiked blue hair took our snapshot. In the evening a light rain was falling as the four of us walked through SoHo, looking …Read article