Children's Hospital
by Katie Ford
February Elegy
by Mary Jo Bang
Inward
by Britney Franco
Gift
by Alice Notley
Oakland Blues
by Ishmael Reed
Beatitudes Visuales Mexicanas
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
“Historical brutality”
by Tomaž Šalamun
Alone
by Tomaž Šalamun
All It Is
by Alfred Corn
It Is Not
by Valerie Martínez
Something’s Coming but Never Does
by Rebecca Gayle Howell
At My Best
by John Rodriguez
Lures
by Adam Vines
The World in the Evening
by Rachel Sherwood
Statocyst underfoot and we, returning:
by Knar Gavin
Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight
By Yvor Winters
I
Hard dreams. The moment at which you recognize that your own death lies
in wait somewhere within your body. A lone ship defines the horizon. The
rain is not safe to drink.
In Grozny, in Bihac, the idea of history shudders with each new explosion.
The rose lies unattended, wild thorns at the edge of a mass grave. Between
classes, over strong coffee, young men argue the value . . .
For me, biography is a lantern, burning in the midst of parenthetical opaqueness. In a sense, it is a ruse, a phantasmic meandering, brighter or dimmer, according to the ecletic happenstance of terror.
Me, I’ve been sired in anomaly, in an imagery of brewing grenadine riddles, a parallel poesis spawned from curious seismographic molten. I say curious, because the original stalking arc has . . .