Lascaux is Burning
The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments
The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments
How do I write with these frantic fingers Left index plugs tearing right aorta Right hand holds closed ripping left ventricle I am hopelessly, entirely
In our attic, among things, as it seems of past lives, lives a bitter God. When guests come to our house, we don’t mention him.
hurricane Syllables [hur-i-keyn, huhr– or, esp. British, -kuh n] –noun After a couple weeks sentence of staying in some foreign place with trees, she came back home and Miami
Sammie Jo don’t talk much. Her mother like to cut out her tongue any time she speaks up. A bone outta socket. As big as
Your voice alights on my armhair, a whiff of cigar smoke— caramel, and ghostly— “Cities die; let them.” Black thing to say. I patter
In the coffee shop watching all the invisible people. The Chinese cellist reading aloud without a sound, the two men nearby trying to flirt inconspicuously,
“Let’s be in love for just tonight,” you said, When I had better things to do in red High heels. Encircling your big bad bed
In love with dismal days, he told me why: Won by dimensions, his green eyes caress Big bosomed clouds. Suggestiveness of haze Conjures up Milky
The thunder polka of a new romance Began today on my left foot, the one Believed to lead suggestiveness astray. True love’s a waltz: it’s
Can’t you let the film spool unseen on the stained floor? Its frames forever static as my fingers resplice our hands. Let my battalions of
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.