Ed Baker

The Touch

In this dark and quite
she handed me another

straight-up double whiskey
clearly as chilled as was her
hands her lips crossed

the room and quickly met
in a moment I could not
get out of



The Touch

what thinking
up Sugar Loaf


up north side
over grown ivy

valley below overcome
with smoke’s pungent

just beyond the stench
the source of the waste

felt her and my skin
itched up bristled my

image against rock
pinned against with
an old fountain pen

oh, to linger and at
least strip down to
see her loosely held

“We have a complex

“My father was a garbage

“Picked me up every day.

“I was young and knew

“Oh the stink he made of

Raymond Farr

A Flintlock New Yorker

342,689 miles
From anywhere

From nowhere
& I’m catechumen as yellow again

An avg. jalopy
A flintlock New Yorker

I wander these frigid roadside ditches
With my blue guitar

Invisible as an owl

Cloaked in my pure white

I wander inside of you

I meant to express
Everything to which I was subjected

That is why I brought you
To this new land


T.A. Noonan

from The Ep[is]odes: a reformulation of Horace



Your body is a rotten world, whore—your black tooth, wrinkled forehead, cunt gaping like raw cow’s ass. Crumbling, you still inflame me with your fallen horse tits, prone belly, swollen thighs, legs like an afterthought. Be happy. You death will be triumphant. You will never wed, but no branch has ever had rounder berries. Some keep their philosophy books between silk cushions. Illiteracy doesn’t halt the study of wetness, of nerves in the tourniquet. The dick is no less hard when dumb. But to raise the proud voice of my groin, your mouth must team with words.




There is nothing in front of me, [       ]. I need help with my poems. I’m struck by a serious love, by boys and girls soft as porcelain before the fire. This is the third of December. The forests and I have shaken our fevers—theirs for leafy dress, mine for a river-king’s daughter. I was the shameful story of the city, the joke of every party. I pity the friends shoved to the back of my mind—especially you, who listened to my complaints. It must have been those hot tears and all that shameless wine that made a mad god of me:

“All she wants is gold, but there’s no money in genius. If only I could sweat out this black bile. My pride. Throw war to the winds. I’m better than her solicitors.”

How ruthless, this self-praise. You told me to go home, but I was born with aimless feet. Alas, no friendly threshold, just—oh!—a throbbing body, broken loins. Now, I’m gripped by a new love who glories in his girlish charms. No friend or insult will free me. What I need is new heat, the kind only smooth-haired boys and girls can create.



What do you want, you black whore worthy of elephants? Why do you send gifts? For the record, I’m wrinkled but not fat and don’t possess a strong nose. I am, however, savvy to the tang of squid and goat in your hairy pits. It doesn’t take a sharp dog to find a pig. There is nothing but conquest and sweat and stench here. My dick is soft, but you need to fuck me. Little remains of your wet chalk makeup; your crocodile-shit skin is showing. You race toward your sow’s climax, tear the roof off your bed, bitch:

“When you’re with your precious wet princess, you come three times, but not even once with me? What kind of lesbian madam sends me a pussy when I want a bull? If only you were like that other man, the defender, the one whose cock was as hard and steady as a tree clinging to wild hills. Who do you think ran that lush purple fleece to your door? I did—to prove that you’re a prince, my prince. That I’m more than just another escort, another lovestruck tramp. Oh, it breaks me to see you fly from me, like a lamb from sharp wolves, a kid from lions.”

Richard Fox


On Monday, I personify the love scene.

On Tuesday, if I raise your ire, is it as a feral child or as a weapon?

On Wednesday, there was the clandestine night spent at the airport:
what goes up must go up.

On Thursday, I came across a book that struck me as perfect, or was it just me,
paying attention?

On Friday, the all-night diner closed & it took all winter for winter to arrive.

On Saturday, you bore a crown of fool’s gold.

On Sunday, you wished upon a star you didn’t count the last time.

I counted on you, though, as I must have loved you at some time or other.

Brendan Lorber

124 Short Poems Each Beginning With a Line from The Seafarer

Do some people      are they      without souls      or have less of it
than others?     Or is it that      they haven’t found      what
they are     meant to be doing     Commodity fetishism      wherein
I’m not interested      in fucking you      except through some
monetized resource     or perhaps      I’m only      into the resource
and save myself     the hassle      of talking to you     dear worker
or investor after      because you      never have much of an      amen to say



Down on Earth and The People There

They own your face       but the slap still hurts
Only      so many encumbrances     your back
can handle       that insist they don’t exist

I’m completely unfamiliar       with customs
like ordering a double      while drinking
alone      so one’s drink won’t be lonely

An unwritten song       with the glandular
subtext      of everyone’s search history

My unmusical band       The pure silent
perfection      of St. Patrick’s Catheter
akin to how many men      from Alabama
who dream       of being a French boyfriend

My age is one of the top 100      favorite
ages to be      but my range of expression
is only up to season two       where nothing
happens      without a reason      or with one

Come back to Earth     We need you here
among the train traffic      ahead of us
The briefly acceptable       burden of clarity
when everything depends      on the whatsit
and the hole      in the bag      it falls through

Jared Schickling




is silent it did not know
what to answer
continuous coverage of swindles

No more pictures
shelved on phones
just like that

Nonsense the sky
big once
lack of another engagement

the crowd seizes a person
tears its head off
this crowd was

Set to wait around
to open their gates
they put

This person behind counters
stuck the knob in its teeth

it would
look more
like this

A door opened to the surprise of
the public



pull me out by the feet
keep my clothes on down below
it’s been too easy to stump me

who will stand at the counter
who let the public in
this is terrible

stand me up, please
i have butter in my mouth
this is to be a sensation




this shelf

Nothing here
this counts

Give it the butter
this mouth

And your pay




It came down to this
back at home
the rooster crowed

Jumping out
of its face
it leaned against the wall & started to hiccup

It was funny how
such a tiny thing finished
something else
when this ugly thing happened




It created these to
try on a gut.

To try on
its own belly.

Of course it’s not
its but

it worked.
Must have.





not long ago



Jessica Comola

An Atmosphere Transmitted Through Time and Reduced to the Last Minute

In copying the immortals from one marina into another we found when they came
into view there was often a small phenomenon. We often ate Lotta candy. In the
adult pump clubs there was a lot of do-re-mi nakey. Flash-bounce. Loligram.

This junk food addiction is like “looking for the true self”—when we met the taste
it was losing something, a sense of loss. I think there is a sense but I’m a dirty
character. I remove the bad tastes by being placed on a hot bath wall.

We were engaged in a truly unique outbreak. The quality of our cake was ensured so
that it would not fall, but you had to eat it whole and fluffy. The people experienced
the superspeed of losing sight of the coordinate axes together with ALL—the
function of thinking.

Once serialized, they’d fled in every direction. There were always pale-fingerprints
carrying brief pardons of theorem on their person in order to avoid detection. We
wrote in level letters. We copied imperfections from one mark to another. This was
to declare Thy Wonderlands, oh Loudspeaker.

We follow the rules, we kill our woollies, we place regular supplies of provisions
in designated areas throughout the surrounding mountains. We will let you
make a needle hole. We can ensure twelve free minutes under the supervision
of paramedical thatch. But there is a common expression—pitiable, pitiable—a
common saying. A private collection. A bunny’s gummy dream. A set of questions. A shiny light emission.

Eileen R. Tabios


I saw the Best Poets of my generation

Best American Poetry
Best U.S.-American Poetry
Best Poet With Lariats Poetry
Best Puppy Poetry
Best CAT! Poetry
Best Moon Poetry
Best Mooned Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Poetry
Best Cowboy Poetry
Best Indian Native American Poetry
Best Under-Thirty Poetry
Best Under-Twenty Poetry
Best Minor Poetry
Best Over-Fifty Poetry
Best Eighty-is-the-New-Fifty Poetry
Best Obscure Ethnic-American Poetry
Best Bestests Poetry
Best Beasties Poetry
Best White Male Poetry
Best Filipina Poetry
Best Non-American Poetry
Best Non-U.S.-American Poetry
Best Whale Poetry
Best Political Poetry
Best Apolitical Poetry
Best Witness Poetry
Best Blind Poetry
Best Conceptual Poetry
Best Concrete Poetry
Best Death Poetry
Best Samurai Death Poetry
Best Other Poetry
Best Other-ed Poetry
Best Eileen R. Tabios Poetry

I saw the Best Poets of my generation

                                                                   submit themselves

to Best-of Lists

                                         and Create New Lists

                                                                    upon zero acceptance by Old Lists.

Best American Experimental Poetry
Best U.S.-American Experimental Poetry
Best Poet With Lariats Experimental Poetry
Best Puppy Experimental Poetry
Best CAT! Experimental Poetry
Best Moon Experimental Poetry
Best Mooned Experimental Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Experimental Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Experimental Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Experimental Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Experimental Poetry
Best Ethnic-American Experimental Poetry
Best Cowboy Experimental Poetry
Best Indian Native American Experimental Poetry
Best Under-Thirty Experimental Poetry
Best Under-Twenty Experimental Poetry
Best Minor Experimental Poetry
Best Over-Fifty Experimental Poetry
Best Eighty-is-the-New-Fifty Experimental Poetry
Best Obscure Ethnic-American Experimental Poetry
Best Bestests Experimental Poetry
Best Beasties Experimental Poetry
Best White Male Experimental Poetry
Best Filipina Experimental Poetry
Best Non-American Experimental Poetry
Best Non-U.S.-American Experimental Poetry
Best Whale Experimental Poetry
Best Political Experimental Poetry
Best Apolitical Experimental Poetry
Best Witness Experimental Poetry
Best Blind Experimental Poetry
Best Conceptual Experimental Poetry
Best Concrete Experimental Poetry
Best Death Experimental Poetry
Best Samurai Death Experimental Poetry
Best Other Experimental Poetry
Best Other-ed Experimental Poetry
Best Eileen R. Tabios Experimental Poetry

I saw the Best Poets of my generation

                                                                   submit themselves

George J Farrah

From Swans Through The House


Book 2.


A carrion of caboodle in the casein cajoling

it would even out in the horizon caution

believe it would be a prize of old cider trees

column of colonies eat their way as light givers

in front of the court of colors

a dab fish a cytology a dachshund I am their pet

a daisy damaged by a dairy

a deport of intentions strung like a tent

a dislocation of water instead of always speaking

of cane the dressage of the nations bespeaks advertising