Sign Up

-----Earthly Accord-----By Justin Hales

Where is the yoke in the trough?                The dulled horses                                 Bounding back to fists of marble,                Are gusts in the belly,                               Leaping into gusts of air and block,              The matter of a felled djinn,                        Some pistillate lamplight,                                That would not wring                                Stingers honeyed with a stab,                   The apatetic quelling                                    Of a form that aches                                     Of all the forms,                                               A being that is a presence of being,        And not the stilled...

Read More

------Cloud Diary------By Steve Mitchell

The music is a fog between us, warm and ripe, intimate as skin. It's a heat generating our limbs bone to bone. Nathan's guitar bobs hip to opposite thigh, his right foot rising to the toe, then dropping on the downbeat. My eyes are closed most of the time, but I know we're facing each other, facing the roar between his guitar and my voice.                                                                         The crowd is churning; they'd been completely his for the last three songs, before he called me to the stage. The entire night has been one gradual ascending...

Read More

--------Not John--------By Mark Jacobs

Three minutes into his conversation with Weather Woman, Marco Slivovitz knew it was a test. It took two Bushmills and thirty more minutes of talk to be sure that the test had nothing to do with sexual conquest. An objective observer of Marco, looking down from a safe location, would have said it was about escaping. Marco knew better. He was being tested, all right, but the subject of the exam was his shifting self.                                                                             The Tangiers was the kind of bar Marco gravitated to any time he found...

Read More

Kitchen Sestina
By Michelle Chen

The burning crockery pot shrivels
White shreds of pomegranate pith
Like the insides of open eggs.
Yellowed tombstone teeth of maize
Punch, one by one, out of their roots
And freefall under your pinwheel eye...


Read More...

Spangle of Quafe
By Jon Pearson

...The wanting that lay behind or beneath words felt delinquent and reckless, and often when the words did come, they felt naked and a bit ashamed, like a little boy in wool shorts and Sunday shoes called forth to recite for the grownups...


Read More...