By God, I would
if I could.
by Ricky Garni of Carrboro
I call my mother, sweat in & out of Kroger, text the single you after getting hired. M sends me a picture of her legs holding a coozie holding a beer holding my liquid float eyes. We’ve never met could be today. If I have to say I miss you I don’t mean it.
by Parker Tettleton of Oxford
The bulldozers scrape the stubble from the corpse another bloated floater. It has come to this: no hope and the tsunami of dope. But listen to the river, I hear their dripping paddles and Frenchy songs all for cadence. The long boats shoot the Detroit and the voyageurs come again, gone from these forests for just a mistaken moment.
by Scott W. Younkin of Raleigh
it will all work out, because when i awake staring at your you, i say:
corn on the cob you fucking dinosaur. & that's what love sounds like.
by m.g. martin of New York
Lighthouse, shore, pennies on his eyes forever, maybe more. The waves, the shore, my tracks for sand, his body for water, I don't look back now or when the rains pour. Blood smeared on my lips, I weep on the wheel, driving home, full of dreams of sinking ships.
by Edward Rathke of Gwangju
The carnival is torpid and drawn-in like lemon puckered lips and tightened sphincters, patched canvas overhangs protecting from rain but opened to the inescapable smells of manure and sickness. More puckered lips. The clowns circle me in a packed ring and one reaches out a smudged white hand with purple veins snaking across the powder. His blue strings of hair create veins that cover his face in a bloodless mask.
by Danica Green of Newtown
Dousing me in badness, my father delivered me from good weekends, even before I was born. His penis pox infects her, profaning Johnny Fetus, AKA me. I resent never hearing. I resent never seeing. Lady Gaga or Internet porn? Not for Johnny Fetus. I resent the cirrhosis of the liver he gifted before I ever held a drink.
by Chas Warren of Osan-si