Peter Marra

Hairline Fractures Pale colors She lay awake afraid to move Shocked by her own murder lusts A long silver needle slowly had been inserted in her mind the ecstatic corporate scientists were Injecting multiple obje...

Marc Olmsted




SCANNING FOR MONKS Ambitition - my breaker of worlds = disappointment's king & chief ally of wake=up! Sipping bad coffee scanning for monks there's a lot I won't do now for your rottentooth deals -...

Francine Witte

Any Other Street would be made of asphalt, black pitch pillowing in the August heat. But this street is woven with bones and ash and anything else leftover when a dream dies. It’s the kind of street you try to av...

Jane Ormerod

Die Harder Inside A hand. Wheels. Silver nodding, coffee, the inward flight. Trust Los Angeles. Collect and die. The baggage of toe fist and bear co-and-op-and-corp-oration. Frosty riding. (Live to thirty then flee when...

Vincent Katz

The Wrong Day it was so beautiful today, the most perfect of ones lighted on bricks and the last walkings toward figures one had seen all summer and would see again and my parents arrived last night after being dela...

Steve Luttrell

Device She can’t take her eyes off her phone. Clutched in her hand, a tether to some unseen source. I wonder what she sees in that device? glowing like a beacon in her hand. She can’t take her...

Thaddeus Rutkowski

COLD DAYS IN FLORIDA When the temperature drops to forty degrees, people don’t want to walk around. It is too cold to be outside. They stay inside and wait until the days get warmer. The temperature rarely drop...

Peter Bushyeager

Poet Story The steel taps on Mayakovsky’s size 13 boots scraped the smear off his surface when he wrote while striding the Rockaway boardwalk each metallic rap on the planks a refugee thought gathered so he cou...

Ron Kolm

Hand Job It’s my first day on the job In a plant making hand trucks. “You’ll be rubbing acid on new Welds to seal them,” the foreman Tells me. “Here’s some rubber Gloves,” he says, tossing me a pair. ...

Anton Yakovlev

NEW YEAR’S EVE IS THE HARDEST By June he was done and done with politics and painting. He couldn’t care less where he’d dropped his KGB card. The shame at being blacklisted only sped up his breathing two or three...