bart plantenga

“That happens to be nothing less than a mermaid. An authentic, flesh & blood mermaid.” —William Powell, Mr. Peabody & the Mermaid Bikini Girl requested – demanded! – that I show up at the Monkey Bar in a...

Peter Bushyeager

It’s November and there’s a steady stream without stagnation or scum as glitter resurfaces in the trash mound political races raise fear and candidates come clean about dark money cast into shady corners. Po...

Greg Masters

Broadway for Paul by Vincent Katz Knopf $27 Often matter-of-fact in tone, stripped of rococo embellishment or flowery pretense, these poem-objects by poet, art writer and translator Vincent Katz stand as testimony to k...

Edgar Allan Poe

The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and ...

Suzi Kaplan Olmsted

Mac Davis died today He wrote music for Elvis, or something I was a terrible flute player I'm not sure if I remember it correctly I'm not sure why my memories are so fuzzy about it, either I was having some bouts of ...

Wanda Phipps

Thursday, September 17, 2020 slo-mo melting images in my brain dali does a cartwheel california’s burning orange skies smoke wired through clouds do I hear fireworks In the middle of the night in new york or ...

Jim Feast

Gerald Nicosia, Beat Scrapbook (Brooklyn: Coolgrove Press, 2020) 113 pages, $19.95 Gerald Nicosia has dedicated all his nonfiction books to describing those who, through whatever means, fought for the underdogs. His biogr...

Carrie Magness Radna

He always wanted love more delicious than hard candy couldn’t ever get enough— never could quench down the fire in his loins, in his mouth and she was red-hot once upon a time, before their kid, before the fa...

Olena Jennings

We were trapped inside. We used to throw our cigarette butts out the window. We were leaving pieces of ourselves everywhere then. The soles of my shoes crumbled and the threads of my shirts unraveled. He came to se...

Anna Halberstadt

*** И от любви остаётся горстка пепла, не больше напёрстка. Нет, не страшно стало душе быть нелюбимой уже. Вот тебе рукави...

Kevin R. Pennington

I. Riding the bus, going to the doctor. Today, it’s the psychiatrist. Tomorrow the therapist. I ride in silence, staring at my phone. The trip is long, as measured in poetic meter. Too many stops for an en...