by Anselm Berrigan

I no longer wish
To contribute to
The communal anxiety
The practitioners of no
Two-something and six
Let me see your scrapes
You want ice
There’s no ice here
You want a treat?
It’s not treat day
Sit on foot, bounce
It starts to fall off
If you don’t put on
Your coat, your tushy
Will turn to ice & fall off
Food full of additives of
No interest to the outlines
Staining what we call
Our pavement when
I stick it to work
Don’t leave says
The pull on arm

by Anselm Berrigan

How are we doing
notationally speaking?
We are feeling conspicuous
No amount of crypto-hasho
forear / blackbear
fiddling will make us not
have to get up
& pee while high
in this death to explosions
bean scenery underlay
Writing Anselm imitations
in a fucking cafe.  Space goes
here.  Approximate length
of limit stops behind, distraught
at not having hand held
Original crumbs wiped
off original arm

by Grace Andreacchi

Alia, the Beautiful
     a poem in three parts

1.  Torn Apart

the sky is torn
apart the stars
lie scattered
upon the dead ground
a handful of frost flowers
wrapped in clothing and
plastic bags
we gathered her up
in horror before the
dogs ate her
seedpod lighter
than light in our hands
called her Alia
‘the Beautiful’
brought teddy bears
to mark the place
now plush sentinels stare
with shoe button eyes at eternity
her mother is likely
to require medical attention

2.  Light

You bring good news
pale solemn angel
that halo round your head
is real
parents on plastic chairs
creak lean in and photograph
intensely
listen intensely
unto you is born this day
in the city of Bolton
a newborn child
alive in a pool of light
a lamp inside a glass
a glass like a star
a star like a felled flower
light upon light

3.  Smoke

the dogs snuffling hot
breath on my face

teeth begin to tear
I awake screaming

I have taken your place
under the black leaves

under the sea of darkness
wave upon wave of smoke

the Lord of Mercy
will pardon me

my tears are flowing streams
that water your heaven

come now, daughter
on the feathers of a bird

by Adrian C. Louis

Moth-shaped leaves bang
again & again against
the basement window.
Snow-filled winds curse
against my rented house
at forty miles per hour.
I’m plump, nude, & waiting
for the washing machine
to finish its mad dance.
I live alone & haunt
myself with lies about
forgotten flesh while
dormant desires feast on
my increasing forgetfulness.
If the true God manifested
in this Minnesota basement,
I’d mince about & wink,
but if Satan popped up
I’d sell my tight ass
without blinking for
just a few more years.
Just a few more
years with you.