By: Adrian Slonaker  If you assume I remember you take hay fever medication every August; your meals must be prepared macrobiotically; you stroll alone through churchyards when you wish to reflect, if you assume I feel the swirling cyan of your…

By: Rajnish Mishra Life-long have I envied others many a line, Will someone ever envy One of mine? My verse born now, Fresh – dead until read. Someone, anyone, yes, you – If only you read it! Would you call it…

By: Rajnish Mishra My poems are signed anonymous, For anonymous they are, From somewhere they come, Sometimes. Who makes them? What time? Which place? In what climes? I think not I fathom it all. I know it as true, That there…

By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan There is a ceiling to everything. Once you look up from the floor it is there. Some are vaulted to provide the illusion of progress. Most are simple plaster stained with nicotine and water damage. This one…

By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan Strutting inside a banshee’s scream shirtless and hardly virile burst blood vessels like cheery seeds through the dermis scraggly man-ape hair in unpresentable patches camphor bunking down in oil lanterns mountain pass caravans bringing poppy dreams to…

By: Travis Lee The homeless man spent his days on the street corner outside Wal-Mart, two messages on cardboard in front of him. One message identified his plight, the other explained who he had been in another, normal life. Each…

By: Kristy Fusich The strangest lips always taste the sweetest Those ones that let words whisper without care Those ones that look like ripe and sweet berries Those ones that bring chills with a smile Those ones that you didn’t see…

By: Kristy Fusich Smells Like Teen Spirit was a terrible song about deodorant, but we listened to it anyway and rocked out in our dirty flannels with the cigarette burn holes in them. You got high on meth in my bathroom…

By: Kristy Fusich You never screamed no, but it’s what you were saying. This isn’t right. This doesn’t feel right. You go limp and play dead. When the scorpion stings its venom leaves you numb. Its tail is quick as a…

By Gaither Stewart Bertold Brecht put into everyday practice Marxist collectivism and dialectical materialism in his art as few other Western writers have ever achieved. Despite accusations of avidness for money, the German poet and playwright belied any doubts about…