Considering the Bog Man Like that pickled fellowI will keepsomething sourpuckered tightand curledA smileA senseof patience Dayevaporateslike vinegarThe hangman loseshis gripThe ropeslackens in time In timeI will preserveif nothingelse the grossblackened bulb of mein a… Read More »3 Poems by Ian Stratton
The seven hundred seventy-seven billion, seven hundred seventy-seven million, seven hundred seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred & seventy-seventh person born will receive a free meal at Golden Corral. This person will be transferred from their plastic… Read More »777,777,777,777 by dizzzzy turek
Ice-crystal halo around the bright moon, waxing gibbous, suspended within a proscenium of eerie pale blue clouds giving “space” — they looked like lambent icebergs at night. It is performance enough. I may pull off… Read More »TEXTURE OF YOUR PITY-LIKES (HEXICAL CEILINGS) by Jesse Hilson
I perform my exhaustionon stage at the Mayan Theatre. Crawling skin should be cute,anything crawling should. The heat floats through my head,kissing the temples, settling in the occipital. Some windmills are the bladesand they get… Read More »I PERFORM MY EXHAUSTION by Z.H. Gill
James and Dana, born on the same day in 1976, married sometime last year. They have forgotten the date. It was cold. Turning from her husband as the priest read from generic vows, Dana saw… Read More »James and Dana I (This is the Way) We are blessed by Ben Faulkner
Bury? Bury what? There ain’t gonna be a body left to bury when we’re done with you. We’re gonna turn you into sludge. Into moon stew. We’re gonna turn you into slimy little bits. We’re… Read More »The Slugs by David C. Porter
Do you remember your first dream? Mine was a dream of myself dreaming; I watched my body from above; I had legs but no arms, my head was slightly wider than my torso. There were… Read More »Transcendence by Ben Faulkner
Many thousands from being or here, but I heard about scale gum with that exactly describes some lucky form of pressure, form of default options, really common for any more here; perfectly fine: dryer lint… Read More »The Botticelli on Pausing by petro c. k.
Panting black crows. Speechless open beaks, tired and silently frantic with thirst, and as a result not disturbed at all by my presence. The grass offers nothing, not the ants either, their dried up bodies,… Read More »Prose by Alison Selden
Who has not known their death as marvelous,Felt its exhausting anguished crescendoRage beneath a voice dry and timorous,Heart speed grow in waves of thumping bellows.Long to grab the undead form by its neck,Scream You well… Read More »ba-DEE ba-DUH ba-DEE ba-DUH ba-DUM! by Forrest Muelrath