POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Electric Eels, Finishing School, Teeth

Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.

The Body is a Sin

The sin is existing.

Soft Porn and Cuban Pine

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

necromancer woman, witch woman

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

An Interview with Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.

The State School 1984 His Given Name Was Wilbur  We Called Him Magpie

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

An Interview with Brian S. Ellis

The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.

A Way of Seeing

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

“Artifact,” as Translated from Gluberhöff’s Lexicon

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

The love of my life moved from portland to new england

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

things they won’t tell you but should:

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

Vase

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

Lavandula

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

Babylon

If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray

if detritus is all i’m made up of

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

Observer of the Patient

Her brown eyes,
how a fig
considers itself.

The Man

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

Finding My Fix

I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.

A Beautiful Thing

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…