Tag: Poetry

Poetry: Gene Goldfarb’s “they beat the last fish”

senselessfor his pride whenhe stood up to themon his iridescent finsand called their bibledirt in perfect Aramaicso they hid their shameand made him bleedlike his brethrenwhom they strangledand cut up and ate beforethey invented storieslauding themselvesas kings to the cows andsea creatures Gene Goldfarb, a Long Islander, loves writing and keeps trying it. His poems…
Four Poems by W. Todd Kaneko

Oh, Say Can You See I can’t see anything without my glasses, except the world’s blurred words,the moon’s glow through the window. Tonight, my son calls for his mother,and it’s me who soothes him back to sleep. Then it’s just me on the stairs outsidehis room, looking for a poem to write, something about injustice…
Three Poems by Millissa Kingbird

CW: sexual assault
Poetry: “VW Ramblings” by Kat Cameron

Found poem on a VW bus Check ego. Pay attention.I’m diagonally parked in a parallel universe. Where are we going? Jerome, Arizona.Grow your own dope. I need the money.No guts, no glory. Go for it. It’s the scenic route. Why am I in this handbasket?Don’t make me release the flying monkeys.Bring back the wolf. Plant…
Poetry: “Swallowed Whole” by Christopher Latin

even my god/ can be colonized even my body/ is a preexisting condition but what/ of love/ do we have to be ashamed —from a version of “Crimson Ring,” a poem for Sasha Wall screaming is the best way to not be silent mouthful seizure of want night’s long teeth sweetheart …
“More Than This,” a poem by Tim Carrier

Yes, I liked it when we had abundance. Liked its love. Like we were sitting up on the roof rolling thin white cigarettes, with a pale tobacco, very light on the fine white paper. Ryan climbing up to the long flat roof with a bag of Fritos. Karen in her faux-hide boots, with shining gold…
Poetry: Bryan D. Price’s “Station to station”

The ocean is wide but the road is onlyas long as an upturned truckswaddled in flames.To one another they refer tothemselves as pilgrims,though their devotion to the pastoral is conditional,like the words of a balladrevered more for the violence of the roomthan for the persistence of its intentions.These words are percussive.Voiced rhythmically.Not staccato like pistol…
“Rainbow Rock-Climbing Club,” a poem by Adèle Barclay

I’m a gecko on a wallthat simulates a cliffwith rainbow gripsI’ll touch any colourthat’ll have me touch itmidway is high enoughwary of emotional cliff-jumpingI don’t mean homesteadinglike that queer you overheardat Turk’s talking babiesafter only a monthI mean relentless breathlessnessand forgetting to hydratehaving met at an awkward sex partywe now call it a datebecause we…
Three Poems by M. Ann Hull

This Isn’t An Era for Adoring the unborn fingers of a tea cupgripping to its chipped brimbrittle stembones shedding petalslike a dry red rain. Thick, thicketedromances & tiny eyelid-lickingglances were for the timid & the timidhave all gone, leaving bridges scrubbingstarlight from their steel. I could tellmy unborn daughter there was a timewhen a hand…