by Paul Pines bare limbs just greening taxonomy starkly visible implicate echo of leaves porches at night harboring shadows we walk my old
by Paul Pines EPONYMOUS PAUL Easter morning the notion of waking to the sound of a trumpet or its corollary the Roshi’s well–timed
by Paul Fericano Not that good sense has anything to do with poetry but if for some reason I should decide That I’m not completely satisfied with
by Paul Fericano Enough already enough with all this Leonardo DiCaprio crap All this stinking garbage about art for fucking art’s sake This is no
by Richard Jarrette Our destination hovered between Pacific mist and looming clouds conceding a glimpse of arctic blue sky. We half–guess
by Sharon Olinka Winter, 1973: her gallery. Margarita smelled of amber. Daughter of an exiled countess. Silver bracelets, three on each wrist.
by Sharon Olinka This is for the day your lips parted, and I sucked guava candy, melting in your mouth. Candy bought the week your mother died.
by Christian Teresi The Naga were headhunters, but wrote butterfly On the parched reliefs of temples, and in manuscripts born By monastics that
by Christian Teresi As a boy he hauled full buckets, first light breaching The details of cleared acreage, and thankfully again When the day
by Richard Jarrette We could walk freely inside Nebuchadnezzar’s killing furnace most of the time because our God–weather was generally