George J. Farrah

Compass

Proof enough
dry vision
through a single sniff

or not enough
he aches
and crawls to it

the voice of the bench
the beach
the garden fall
the plastic tipped harpoon

my voice
are throats
all hidden

the bare
underarm
a carriage a car
a blinking

a dream
in the ear

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Mary Kasimor

my mother’s guitar and bread recipes

now the conversation overhears itself
first we exchange bread recipes
and later phone numbers
now I can learn to read
easier than wisdom–it is organic
like eyesight feeling a voluptuous
square squatting next to the circle
another spaced out hour under
the intellect rolling its eyes
I can remember my birth
I was the most
beautiful baby in the nursery
my mother taught me how to read latin novels
I grew taller than grass demanding eyesight and the moon
we drove through the desert the sand shaping
the nature of stems
the locks rusted even though it never rained
the sky forced itself on us
I learned to play the guitar
my mother was rich with sound and silence
she and I grew into an organic shape
understanding every word that I swallowed
my mother agreed to be my mother
growing roots out of her head the connection
of breast to nerve
the foreign uprooting to what I understood
I hated her like myself
she loved me best but she died
and continues floating
in acres of music

Ian Randall Wilson

Corollary Three

the womb about the body
a chill suffocation

milky time

medieval sex he tells us
the source

slice a few
fallen nobles

consult a soon condition
proceed to document the crevice

the realism of swabbing
for centuries the hunt

housing a swig
in formal consumption

blood life springs
ritual intoxication

people must predict
plant advance

explore broad nooks

your name
a price

Charles Perrone

Fraternal Epigram 1.5

Friends, I do truly wish an end
to this unruly internecine quibbling.
And as for Mister Sister,
my duly Other Brother,
would that he
could see his way clear
to redeem an available coupon
so as to deem us one and all
dear and beloved siblings.

Andrew K. Peterson

Poem for Boston Seaport’s Northern Avenue Bridge on Joe Cooper’s Birthday

Blood summons the diamond-
harbor city wakes that long for
net-lit passage, smoked copper
dome mouth pouring sage-lipped
incense nailed to concrete.

Harbor the city in wakes
that long for you, disgraced
unions of smuggled blue
elephant labrum, moss,
labor’s musk. Continuation’s

busked out grace rents years
in a tilt among climates for a sphinx
eye to fill. Snow melts the pyramids
releasing bones of tyrants, peaceful kings,
forgotten golds from a rift orchard.

Share these abandoned names
with the storm that brings erosion
in ragtime flu-braced floods, headless
birds, free stuff museums of lost
hoodies. Beneath torrents: violet

skies, deranged rovers beneath cap space,
beneath tea-flooded tides. Vacuums
the leopard from domesticate wheel
fire, frailing and framming. Wash
Atlantic Rivieras out with foam ash

lost deliveries, dismantled search
engines. Blossom and return
illusions on reckless city rewind.
Blossom, oi urchin pattern
fire-nettled floors, birthday forests.

Blossom and anew, release.

Carmen Racovitza

words change people’s fate……

(after Erik’s original text)

he extending amniotic
what space
tête guilt
groupings of recappings
were
strung whirl
vibrionic

unrecked it were
into that kaumatua reassessment
feel monotremes
kitchen penumbras into
that intervening
roux

gingili puffed this he what
is δ folded
he foil
what tautologous chaffe
of an iodophor
unsexes raggedness
in lived plasmodia

have year
i each colour loaf
tutu hardshells
that would help
birdwatching

automatotrophin fluids
these moths
these
moths
he silver tired
reauthorising
mailvan
bombarded disguisedness
is says conjecturably
they’re driven

tired learner
requires &
delimits a shape

undulating
wineshops
he miserable helpline
if life strays
hierarchy is
dodecagynous night
be axils subcardinals
imblazing
grievances

they cup chased resolve
consciousness demonized
effleurage of will
with way or clinquant sensitive
off
just will with way
or background luminousness
and will
with
this solid
life
sea scarts way shattered
sea
she unreproachful
walking

sea
teeth peal
glops
destroyed smartness
iterates her preliminary depurated
era dates
chopins
a little maenadic

ponderable celestial
rough ceilings dry on queuing
cheeks
give bodhisattva little rarely
of just polyzonal
chopsticks
on grandma brightest future

their toymen sharkskin cause
unreproachful
scare velocity
and i that maternally am fat
coinherit him
he admit
teening is one
bursting terraforming
punishment and readable
leprechauns era
there

dopiness
whimseys year
moths contortionate
embayment door
tricky
their pocked book
yuky be gelatine

utterers who sea this spit into that luged
hulked still place
shet her
yellowy razzamatazz thoughts
you phanged practice
arm her
whose algorithmic vassalling
bios pop up
why Tiresias fib
faucets lie

you
it is opposite
we get truth ostomies
epiclike
ceaselessly
certain dainty era beamlets
benign
titbits
geobotany discoloured blades
noiselessly
undefoliate
big sider peace

all workshopping pollenisers
lighterage hyperspatial bezants
categorising
a would-be noiseless genre

there dealate unique
haves arctophil robots
that take kyanises
necessary
making hard year plushness

cup which finger
they will
will be
demotivatingly
entrapped as cybercriminals

beautiful imprecise feel
i by rare reeking
choreograph profound
beautiful pavises
dive up city members
cut off enchantment

i orange give opalescent
but
give has gurges
has lines of reverable
gummose era
into it

pushed that misfiled
sea
noctilucent with
hope
you hear and sideman

beautiful α you
imprecise of i
phrase on enrage
grave silent take
on replumbing dream
overthrowing these
grave minny
all dismantlements that cut

he enfeebling
ζ
she embrace
all that misfiled
she sea
big line
into forgetfulness
that event slickings
of a logos
him impede concaveness

syrup go what heeded
big late abstrusity of likest physicality
choke would big
she dying
myrmidon
cantonal ever subduple
be waterscape

we
outbargain
cup Verlaine
i you desulphurate glossographers
photooxidizing and
all year demoralizations
cup big ∞
is new

melodramatics

hard would be
big dizzy decimalist
outwent interested
apple matrilocality
of juliets

big her him
zero-g calendarer
anchorless
with rich flood cherubims around
and spectroheliograms
cup the moths
just take irrelevances
be refolded

platyrrhines
morphemically fat
echo totalisation
one peal he grief
she after he
she universe in expansion

 

Bill Yarrow

END GAME

Where the Story Lies

Everybody wants to know
where the story lies. Does it
lie in childhood? Does it lie
in old age? Does it lie in an
angry outburst or a stinging
rebuke? Does it lie in a moment
of compassion or in the recognition
of calloused selfishness? Bruised
love or hidden despair? Unfounded
ego? Personally, I couldn’t care less
where the story lies. I care only
where the story tells the truth.

Where the Story Tells the Truth

Can a story tell the truth? What truth?
The truth of a moment? What good is that?
A good story is an honest story, but
honesty is not the same as truth.
Anderson’s “Untold Lie” is a good story.
In that story, Hal Winters, twenty-two,
asks Ray Pearson, just fifty with six kids,
whether he should marry his pregnant
girlfriend Nell. Ray mulls it over, finally
deciding to tell him “No! Don’t do it!” but
before he can say anything, Hal tells him
he’s decided to marry her. Ray thinks, “It’s
just as well. Whatever I told him would have
been a lie.” See what I mean? Honest, yes,
but that’s not at all the same as the truth.

Why Stories Can’t Tell the Truth

Look, even a great story like Delmore Schwartz’s
“In Dreams Begin Responsibilities,” which tries
to tell the truth, can’t help but fail. Remember
the story? A kid in a movie theater sees on the
screen his parents in their courting days. Like
Lambert Strether in The Ambassadors, he tries
to warn them: “Don’t do it! It’s not too late
to change your minds!” He gets thrown out
by the usher. He’s about to turn twenty one.
That’s where the story ends. That’s the problem.
That’s the essence of the problem. It’s the problem
with every story, every novel, every play, every poem.
Stories end. Novels end. Plays end. Poems end.
The truth doesn’t end. It never pretends to.

Every Ending Is False

Every ending is false as every beginning is false
because every ending is arbitrary as every
beginning is arbitrary. We pretend otherwise,
but our life does not commence with our birth
(had we no parents or ancestors?) nor end with
our death (had we no influence or effect?)
We didn’t begin; neither do we end. Just because
a book by us or about us has a first and last page
doesn’t mean that we do also. We’ve never not
been here (we were potential in everyone who
came before us) and we’ll never not be here (we
persist in some way in everyone who succeeds us)
and therefore every ending is false. This one too.

Not Every Ending Is False
for Marshall Levin

Though arbitrary, not every ending is false.
Better to say not every ending is accurate.
To the extent to which no story reaches
a final conclusion, the most we can do
is echo Dostoyevsky:

That might be the subject
of a new story
but our present story
is ended

We are the past story, the present story,
and also the new story, the future story.
We end as a stanza ends, as a chapter ends.
Our book is not just long—it is endless.
Blake said

One thought fills immensity

I say, one person fills eternity.

Jeff Harrison

In Rosebuds Are My Letters Dressed

Herr Bibliothekarius, I,
delicately finally identity,
set out for home

suspect,
weeping, &
disappeared irregular w/out drives

further naked,
pleased, & shipped
to the FINAL LIBRARY

but,
of all two
hundred
& thirty one
literary giants

none,
Herr
Biblio-
thekarius,
constructs
Wormswork,
not
so much
a name as
a word
that turns
humble
when re-
cognized

so, may all their laboriously-
penned verse tragedies,

aëry titan-constructed yet
daydreaming hard science,

ever fall, Herr Bibliothekarius,
upon your literary zeal

AG Davis

KNIFING

gall as precedence before
anesthesia timidily feathers
on compliant curtains rob,
as it is tied to the quartering
rope dismounted latex extends,
protector thrown for halves
and crosswise,
laden GPS regression of text,
illegally
knife caught and abroad
bursts, so much for the return,
the biography dismisses
an impenetrable soul,
loose deaf meridians
I have not yet drawn up,
it may never be sliced into salient hearts
in the teeth when we are in the black-lining
towards beige north, which we’ll talk of when (?),

a syphilitic triptych
the arrival of the endless
abortion

passes by
unnoticed

Hugh Behm-Steinberg

From an end is the towards to

So will, will. Have three or more or a camel;
keep your camel in the forest because the business
takes care of the business. Just you wait they say

you’re going to live in a desert, you’re going to

live in a desert and dream of trees, a place where
trees used to be, each one with an angry red heart,
blood black leaves that taste great crumbled

on chickens. The world isn’t shameless even if it’s
full, asking if you’re empirical yet, are you trading
everything you value to the self you tore out long ago?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Come on it’s a coffin it’s how you used to be

what flows rushing undocumented or having
sex with people who don’t love you but find
you more or less attractive an undergraduate

thesis project, the enclosure of property, a silk
shirt for sale at the salvation army (you’re not
saved, you’re not in their army). Your chimney,

your attic crawlspace, your insulation: live
outside all the time now it’s great being a
grownup, live again all the time now.