By: Dagen Kipling Moments of Choice Grey clouds summersault across the skywhite lines of whipped creamcrisscrossed alongthe backdrop of metallic paint blueelectric cobalt appliedto the side ofa 97 mustang the car you let me driveprom night the one that I…
By: Holly Day Dying on a Monday I feel her growing quieter beneath the pressure of my handsflops and flutters like a butterfly drenched in oil, only a few moments moreand there will be no more cheerleader left to tell…
By: Nyse Vicente I hadn’t seen it thenEric DelaviereThe glinting eye, Phoebus light hanging upon the curve of your cheek, or the soft smile, lifted eyes, brows rose as we played in the forestChild’s gameWhen our parents called out to…
By: John Tustin THE CROW Some people have the bluebird in their heart,Some have the raven.Some the gentle sparrow,Some the brutal hawk.There is the crow in my heartAnd he eats my humanityAnd replaces it with sorrowIn the anonymous dark. ###…
By: Katrenia Busch The Image In the midst of the nightDeep within darkness foundLost to vision or sightWhere my soul was once bound Searching through confinementSearching without restSearching that was constantSearching that was obsessed In the midst of a visionThat…
By: Theresa C. Gaynord The Idea Of Me I realize I tend to surround myselfaround fears and self-protection,an emotionally tough lesson I learnedfrom very early on; the women in mylife, my teachers. I get like thissometimes, insecure, scared, anythingbut confident….
By Atticus Ellis Naughty boy, your verse will do you badUnless you cloak the name that you once hadBehind a crafty pseudonym at once.Heed me, and don’t play the heroic dunce. Every stanza can be fraught with dire risk.You need…
By: A. Elizabeth Herting Once upon a time, I used to sleep. Dull sunlight trickled into his cell. It was painful; a single yellow beam straining to be seen through a tiny, grime-encrusted window. The shadows of the bars crept…
By: Atticus Ellis Naughty boy, your verse will do you badUnless you cloak the name that you once hadBehind a crafty pseudonym at once.Heed me, and don’t play the heroic dunce. Every stanza can be fraught with dire risk.You need…
By: Selina Whiteley Helix in B-Coil After Alan Ginsberg, “A Supermarket in California”Foucault, I see you, frail and gaunt, your pneumatic lungs,collapsing, as with rasped breaths you flirtwith that dark-haired paramedic.Do you not think of your Defert? We need him…