First, there is only a sense of wonder.Simple answers tossed up like dice; who, what, and how lying somewherein the sparkling flotsam of the senses.Their fragments mix with the metal and glass. Vision rises like a radiant blister.The glamorous flash of exploding flowers,gold, pink, and blue, a celebrity’s welcome.Sound will have to be added later,…
Category: Magazine Content
The Axeman
At night, the Axeman comes. He enters her apartment silently, and stands over her bed, watching her sleep. He listens to her snores, her whimpers and her sighs. When she gets up in the middle of the night to pee, he follows behind her and from the darkened hallway watches as she pulls her lacy…
The Derelict
From under the bridge she watched the patrol boat scud upstream, leaving on the river a long scar. She loathed these boats, sly in the water and always talking, loud-speakers squawking. She gathered spit and slugged it into the mud. It sat on top of the scummy layer of ice, glistening. Winter was a fist…
A Memory
I saw a car-wreck while crossing the Mojave Desert one oven-summer twilight before I was old. It shut down a four-lane highway, eastbound and west; twisted metal sank into sand between black shrubs and the Wile-E-Coyote orange rock backdrop. I was touring with a testosterone punk-band back then; tattooed Californians who only surfed at night….
Op Techs
Even our shoes muffled, we drift in herds down their streets, bodies flapping cloths of liquid blues and greens. We sink to feeding. Our voices slice the air above slabbed bread or meat, accustomed sights. We rejoice like gardeners in pride of pruning, in snips and rearranging, success and failure fenced by useless bones and…
Lost Jacket Blues
The last time I saw it it was stepping off the curb between two parked cars in Cleveland, its pockets empty but for her hands, its top button loose and dangling like the head of a hanged Nazi, though others swear they’ve since seen it from behind and in the somber company of rain, notwithstanding…
Pronouns for My Sister
We—the plural “we”—we wonder what God was thinking, when He made it so that we don’t feel the cut until we see it, open, black, and emptying our entire volume of blood on the ground. How our conjoinment ends, that is another question altogether. The surgeon—God the surgeon, or Gautama Buddha, if you prefer, the…
Words
Words don’t listenWords don’t talkDon’t do nothingYou write them downThey just kind of sit there Noam GR is a twenty year old well-mannered young lad who enjoys walking that fine line between walking a fine line and not.
Like That
When I first thought of my own death,I had no poems to put it in.Just me and the bed tucked under a cold ceiling that pulled away into black mouths. Years later,I imagined someone’s hands on my hips, my breasts. That scaredme in a different way. The ceiling paused and watched, the bed tensedunder me….
An Ever Widening Distance
Nicola squeals when Dean enters her. He takes this as his cue to really go for it. And he does: ramming hard, enjoying the smacking sounds his flesh makes against hers, the feel of his balls swinging under him. He hooks his fingers around her hipbones to get a better purchase and repositions himself on…