My tongue
a spoon in grapefruit
by Will Sharp of San Antonio
Preliminaries
Searle's Poem
That girl over there in the corner is a block of ice.
by Will Sharp of San Antonio
Superfund
Bodily fluids in sealed jars, arranged in alphabetical order against her basement wall, the only things her husband didn’t take when he left. When she brought the new man home, she led him barefoot down the wooden stairs. She felt the cool concrete as she crossed the floor to the shelves. She told him to choose a jar and take it home. If he wanted to be a part of her life, he could help clean up the toxic waste.
by Mark DeMoss of The Colony
Splinter
Mother Starr sits on her bench, remembers all the perfect splinters she has removed after all the perfect days watching Hazeline play princess of her wooden Camelot, but when she drops the peppermint ice cream cone on the pavement―once Hazeline's favorite―she watches it melt as the line of ants enter in and out through the cone smothering the cream, until it is eclipsed in a blanket of black wriggling legs.
by Matthew Burnside of McKinney
Last Seen
Through a fogged up windshield and none of the humidity sourced from you.
The night I saw through you, seeing Someone in my mouth.
Last seen, wearing yellow under your nails, which I thought was a good sign.
I asked, "Where are you going?" Muffled, over Someone’s shoulder.
"See you." You shrugged.
You always slouched too much.
Last seen, the night you harvested your own mortality. And used it as paint.
by Kerri Farrell Foley of Houston
The Divorcée Confronts Her Social Network
She thinks of endless days baby-talking the Yorkies, then updates her status, uncaps the Xanax, and pours a glass of chilled Viognier. Later, the Yorkies make a fuss. It's almost midnight and they need to go outside, go potty real bad.
by Barry Basden of Llano
4'33"
by Will Sharp of San Antonio
Gödel's Incompleteness Poem
This poem cannot show itself to be true.
by Will Sharp of San Antonio
While you are sleeping
The net of your face holds me.
You are deep within your pale body.
Beside your bed, I sit, an inept
fisherman without a line.
by Vanessa Johnson of Wimberley
You are deep within your pale body.
Beside your bed, I sit, an inept
fisherman without a line.
by Vanessa Johnson of Wimberley
Long Ago and Far Away
The day you took
a hammer to the windshield
I remembered when
we pulled off a country road and
made love on a blanket in the woods.
by Barry Basden of Llano
a hammer to the windshield
I remembered when
we pulled off a country road and
made love on a blanket in the woods.
by Barry Basden of Llano
You and I, the ingredients,
are trying
to make love
without a recipe-
just a list of things
we’ll need: kitchen,
table, heat, lips,
lips, tongues
and teeth.
by Travis A. Everett of Lubbock
to make love
without a recipe-
just a list of things
we’ll need: kitchen,
table, heat, lips,
lips, tongues
and teeth.
by Travis A. Everett of Lubbock
50th Reunion
On the Interstate after the reunion, he began dreaming of Ruth, of slow-dancing with her at their high school prom.
He woke up when he hit the Suburban, then exchanged insurance information and drove home to San Antonio, a hundred miles away.
Later, the doctors said it was the seatbelt that jerked his heart back to life.
He woke up when he hit the Suburban, then exchanged insurance information and drove home to San Antonio, a hundred miles away.
Later, the doctors said it was the seatbelt that jerked his heart back to life.
by Barry Basden of Llano
Einsteinian Friday Night
wingman sipping vodka-
stationary observer
watching two singularities
(roommate and bar fox)
spiraling toward collision
by Alan Gann of Plano
stationary observer
watching two singularities
(roommate and bar fox)
spiraling toward collision
by Alan Gann of Plano
Resuscitation
My heart stops, startled by hangover, day after Mardi Gras dawn, as if beating were trite luxury, like beer forty days forfeit. On Halloween I open my door to goblins, witches & you, a mad-doc who diagnoses fast, plunges scalpel into chest, extracts a withered mass & lazy valves. Squeeze, release & squeeze again until pale memories fire. Crude stitches, leaky veins, shallow breath & somebody to tell if & when I die.
by Alan Gann of Plano
