Nestled in the Crook


By Marike Stucky

She listens for his motions, attentively,

but does not hear for the blare of the television.

It’s switched on

the couch

she’s nestled in the crook.

As a little girl

I listened closely as well,

but now I have seen

the things that men can do.

I feel the fear

that salted her trembling lips.

I only wanted someone to love, she tells me.

Can I climb my way out?

The voice-over keeping on

from the television




By Jocelyn Wilkinson

We have some problems
Real life, fucked up, serious ones.

Actually, fucking tons.

Is it our culture?
Is it our government?
Is it our military?
Seriously, what is it?
Because I don’t understand.
My mind is incapable of comprehension
I can find no sense.

The killing, the innocent,
Death doesn’t ruin only the defiled.
Hitting that point,
it ruins society.

Perhaps we encourage it.
Or maybe we just don’t challenge it.
We live, expecting shit to fix itself.

Psychic Respiration


By Andrew Unruh

A burned out light in the sky,
its life-spark lost to the aether,
throws shade across its hollow-eyed
desolation tenement lodgers…

Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
smoking in the supernatural darkness,
floating across the tops of cities
reproducing flowers of green-gold, red-gold and fire…

The cinders of psychic respiration flow on
within you and without you, as we lay
by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.

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Leaving Home


By Miranda Weaver

I am standing, trembling

at the edge of all my dreams

the dawn of new and promising things

glaring and shimmering across the abyss

I am not afraid of falling- no!

I am afraid of what I’m leaving behind

of breaking with this familiar, beloved ground

So many memories born in this warm earth

But the enchanting, beckoning blue above

calls to me with its freedom

its freshness, its mystery

And my heart is answering

urging me on to this last step in my safe, known place

I will leap! I will spread wings I knew not of, burn with fire I knew not I had

soar in joyful wheels at heights I thought unattainable

Chain Reaction


By Jocelyn Wilkinson

A brush, a swipe, a breath

I feel you against my neck

I can’t find you though.

Where did you go?

Hand flings through the air—I’m growing up to you.

You were just there

But now you’re gone.

Where did you go?




I see you but can’t get you

Try catching up, you’re gone.

Where are you going?




Please I said stop

Just slow down so I can catch you

I can feel you—I’m almost big enough for you—just slow down.

Where are you going?

My body is

    B     U     R     S     T     I     N    G

trying to find, meet, understand you

Can’t you see I’m trying?

Why are you going?

Oh there you are…


I missed you again—bigger, bigger—slipped from my hands.

Why are you going?

You stopped…but…you were going somewhere…

You couldn’t have stopped for me—I shrink, I’m normal.

Why did you stop?

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Slumbering Giant


By Jordan Esely-Kohlman

A granite-tinged
violet fog enshrouds
my brainstem. I become
a tepid traveler, shuffling
and sore. Lantern’s light,
snagging on a million little dew impedances,
unspools into thick threads
of every single color.
Streamers barely billowing, celebrating
existence and the gaps
that permeate it (the exact
coordinates where red becomes
orange becomes yellow…)
Brushing angel hair from my
face, every movement
a bruising moment; I begin
to become color. My blood
brings all my auras to the surface,
making it easier for them to diffuse
through thick skin and
evaporate. So yes,
it is deflation–—a harmless
loss of self–—But more so it is
time stitched seamless into passages through spectrums.

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Centrifuge in Motion


 By Anthony Gonzalez

In the weeds I
Felt the grasses I
Felt the rushes under my
Earthen toes
Sooty feet

I felt the lashes
Of concrete patches
Upon crusted fingertips
In the midday dewy lens
Of christened sapphiric

If forgotten I
Grow molden and I
Shift to dust and suffer
The rust of hinges
In the seasalt air
Molasses thick tears
Of mineral remains
Sticks of carbon
Fretting in
The dirt

Ill begotten I
Give passage to
The sun above though
Powerless to say

My Friend, The Tree


By Rebecca Epp


Sitting by my dear old friend;

Her feet planted firm, toes reaching out

For water, burying themselves in the

Creekbed slate, crumbling beneath

Her gentle weight. She’s so strong

My friend, strong and still;

An ancient relic upon the hill.

Surrounded by others who look

At her with curious eyes; their heads

Tilted with the wind as if saying

How long has she been here?

So long she’s become one with the

Earth, one with the sky, one with

Me. Lucky I am to sit in the shade

Of her attentive gaze; like a shepherdess

Lovingly watching her sheep graze.

A rod in hand and a clear eye;

She walks with grace and purpose

In the low sunlight. Always rooted

In the same spot on the hill, yet

Travelling where her heart would will

Her to go; roaming free among

The mossy puddles, all that remain

Of the flood. I nestle into her bark

So soft and wait for her to speak

Her wisdom. But, she only sits

Basking in the sun, soaking up the

Last of the heat waves; for the frost

Will soon be on its way home.


Lunch Upon a Time


By Kyle Doesken


This isn’t a story of heroes or fairies,

the kind that you’d find on the shelves in libraries.

You’ve heard those before, so I’ll tell you instead

of a story neglected: the heel of the bread.


Our story begins with an average loaf,

purchased by some unremarkable oaf.

An average loaf of whole grain wheat

for an average guy wanting something to eat.


This may sound bizarre, but it’s perfectly true,

that slices of bread are like people like you.

They share but one goal. They have but one dream.

They want to be eaten, as strange as that seems.

They’d find that they’d met with a wonderful fate

If they’re grabbed from the bread bag and put on a plate.