by Cory McClellan

It begins like a stutter in a nursery rhyme.
Eye volumes fluctuate
with capillaries colliding queries of lost keys against o r “.

Facial is the most timid of the twelve cranial nerves.
There is a residue surrounding the cerebrum,
a membrane of tape recorders catching lost voices with butterfly nets.
The electromagnetic waves in nicknames
can cause the lip muscles to spasm with hallucinations of 5:00 am rendezvous.

The tongue is a prisoner of its own paranoia.
To silence hiccups practice counting to ten in a different language;
nerves become confused by unfamiliar phonemes.

by Cory McClellan

Turn off the lights.
Undress with caution.
You’re wearing the electric touch of abandoned hair dryers.

Drag your feet across the carpet floor.

Hands itch with wanderlust electrons searching for a release.

Follow the sound of my voice.
Strike your fingers like matchsticks against the wall.
Feet around in the dark until you fall into bed with me.

Energy cannot be created or destroyed.
Put your ear against my chest.
I’m wearing the sharp burn of banging stones.

by Steven R. Weiner

The single throat in the painted wood car
Screamed for adventure
Defying gravity’s intense external response
Rejoicing in the divine internal sense
Of weightlessly falling
Climbing to the edge of fear
             Falling
From the highest wooden towers
                          Falling
Flying
Through the sediment layers of air
In a capsized boat
                                        Failing
Through the gritty liquid of air
From heaven to hell
And like Orpheus, rising
                                                     Then falling
Holding the bar like a harp
Or an oar
Like a wave in a Japanese anime print
                                     Rising                    and falling
From frightened
To death
             Again falling
Forward rising on circles and dizzying loops
Feeling wickedly good
                                      To fall

Screaming for   more     more
The bottom drops out of the one
                                                    We’re
                                                          Going
                                                                  To die
Voice
And the prophecy was true, falling
Through a river of stick
Down to the line waiting

                          For you
                                      To do it again
                          Failing
                                      From birds to the fish
                          Crawling
                                      On earth at the end
                          When you try to stand up again
                                      You fall.

by Richard Martin

It pays to sleep in a warm room
And review poor decisions
Before nodding off
The mind in a stew of mind
Casts shadows of light
A parade of symbols marches by
There is an outside world
Of snow and romantic leeches
Doctors refuse to make house calls
The walls whisper

When I was child I folded
The narrative of my life
Into a paper airplane
It had wings of sun
And mimicked the flight of baseballs
It soared through forgetfulness
While the Cold War sold tickets
To the subconscious
Dolls spoke in tongues
And mom and dad slept alone

Once the grand canyon of love arrived
I drove my car into the drink
Or brink
I lost faith —
Cold knees shriveled
Into the dust of awakening
Eyes married form
I was silent as atoms on holiday
Until she talked of rivers of paint
And the bliss of indigo trees