By: Keith Moul Fargo winters see drifts stack atop a snowflake. Ignore fact in favor of illusion and lose feeling. So after church we gather at a home, do a count of heads and recount all present on the safe side….

By: Keith Moul Not diverse, but abundant in possession: on lonely grasslands, farmlands, plains or rare marshlands, suited species excel in fevered climate of inhospitable places. Here I choose a likely spot among them, adept, camouflaged, but only to observe. Shelter…

By Michael Lee Johnson Classic 70’s chick scent of these times gold digger want to be. Poet & scholar stuck on T.S. Eliot “The Waste Land.” She tracks down a few stray men, prospect hunks, & greenback dreams. Her long…

By Michael Lee Johnson The angels of wings are always in flight be the devil or archangel Michael. I’m a hawk, I’m a night owl night barroom flights, fighter, seeing eyes that eye me contact, not blind, a rhythm of…

By Michael Lee Johnson Death is a bitch and a whore comes with hat on or off, Jewish, Christian or lover years ago called Nancy. Death is a passport, a left behind baggage note. My leverage sinks, I see you…

By Chinese Poet Yuan Hongri Translated by Manu Mangattu Ah! Into a pleasant hallway of gold Thou did the crystal of the sky mould. A shining City of Gold Chanting unto me from far afield.   Into the golden gate…

By: Wendy Loh Frozen fountains in the street, My breath was weak and out of heat, Not enough of whiskey, perhaps – ah, indeed! One more round to drown my putrid grief. She loved those fountains down the street, It…

By: Wendy Loh Virtual flowers for lovers in a cybertronic century This is like drinking cheap instant coffee Overtly sweet, flat, quick, with a taste that dives into the bottom of sour bitterness A dead fish soaked in diluted perfume…

By: Steve Deutsch What are we if not a mix of stardust and desire? A shell that screams I want across the wanton landscape Those of us not saintly or demonic may temper ache with kindness, a balm of sorts for…

By: Steve Deutsch I have never been one to dive in. At Brighton Beach I’d shuffle seaward, slow as silt, while other children screeched into the ocean at a gallop, more race horse than human— faces shocked from whoa to joy…