All articles filed in Poetry

by Stephanie Kaylor. The days I am tired after bed because my bed is my office and I recall its etymology, pertaining to moral duty, performance of a task; the days I think what it means to go to bed after that, how I dream myself

by Ernest Tjia. At the Charlotte Douglas Airport there is a mural / featuring an alligator flying, wearing a yellow / dress shirt that has been tailored-fit to

by Benjamin Aleshire. I drug my canvas sack through snow, packed with words: They / are super-predators who must be brought to heel. Technically I was a / contractor, buying these words whole-sale

by Mark Cugini. In the final days of the gilded age, the last remaining son of Cornelius Vanderbilt buried a horse’s heart in the forest and took a shit in the hole.

by sung. Do u think my neighbor Michael who can’t tell whether I’m a man or a woman hates me because I don’t mow my lawn or because he can’t tell whether I’m a man or a woman

by Jason Crane. The other day at my job — / wearing my corporate uniform, / the one with the logo on the left breast —

by Daniel Schapiro. The verdict seemed unanimous / that they be re membered / as they lived, lined

By Kamden Hilliard: What’s an hourly spent flirting dead / money into eclipsical “pain?” / Happiness offer e      v      e       r  y

by Urvi Kumbhat. Blanched by sun. Wading home in knee-high water. / The muri man and roadside pharmacist and coconut seller / guarding their precarious wares as the water rises. 

by Ava Hofmann: this colony is like a stand-up comedy routine but you are sitting /
down and i am not yet plotting to kill any senators.