All articles filed in Poetry

by Mark Steven. The thing about realism / is industry really means / extraction but extraction.

by Christopher Costello. Every urn is always a grenade / Let this one not explode in your hand / All our bodies are already acts of war, / so drop yours from a goddamn airplane.

by Dakotah J. On our camping field trips, they’d say, / “Whoever is lightest when we leave wins.” / Sunscreen was a must for us kids.

by Brendan Joyce    The breeze through the sycamore trees’ sickly leaves that screams worsening working conditions, the squirrel taunting the cat from its clicking perch, the possums hunting rats below in the arson lot, the rats getting hunted, the cloud of bats rising from the school’s roof into October orange cloud cover, the spider…

by Sean Bonney. It’s all visible now. Everything. It’s just that all the meanings have changed, and the names no longer apply. We lean against walls, our hands over our faces, and watch the parade. We are naked and frightened.

by Matt Broomfield Cover photo courtesy of the poet.   off the shoulders of the front lines there are mothers stirring great big pots of beans to feed the solid-bellied women in the killing machine off the shoulders of the frontlines there are families displaced three times each time in the rotting belly of a…

by Jamie Hood. Let me try again. We know this story. A girl wanders alone in a wood. A path, unencumbered.

by Morgan Dowdy    we shouldn’t be here but we are precisely here in this groove of the rock at the electrified edge of the yard chewing gum and shutting down Dead canaries litter the park Feathers all bloody and black Death in the vacant lot                  (Mamma…

Arîn Mîrkan is immortal,
lighting up the death star,
setting on ten centuries like the monasteries aflame,
the brave little sternums all become
shields to tanks and heavy guns