Denny snacks on termites
that fall from
the thatched roof.
They, too, will dance
in a heated spoon.
min words | max heart
Robert W. Fieseler
Denny snacks on termites
that fall from
the thatched roof.
They, too, will dance
in a heated spoon.
Our nominations for the Sundress Publications 2016 Best of the Net anthology. Take a moment to enjoy these fine works!
In no particular order…
Simon Perchik
You cover one eye, upset
though sunlight means nothing now
and against your cheek some mother
strokes her child –you praise half
and what’s left spends the night
the way all wounds begin
as a single touch then end
broken apart under the same wind
birds use for a home
and every morning more sleep
is needed, more darkness, returned
as if it had its beginnings here
is touching down, adored
by one hand held out, the other
no longer moving or found.
Tom Snarsky
Underthought as in underfoot, not
Undercooked. Dry snow, not wet meat.
Images are culpable if thought is
Infinite, like we sometimes imply.
To hold that all can be presented
Again, with minimal complication,
Underappreciates the way dry snow
Hides water from the subtle boundary
Of a phase transition. Melt, refreeze,
Step on, step over. Get out of the way.
Jessy Randall
Seth Copeland
Before burning, rangers scour
for strays, miss an old
deathwish bison, lenses
isinglass scrabble, heightened spoor
of the next world, lambent,
liminal in windlifted brush fire,
still as an uptown statue.
Zephyrs pare the swart umbra.
Infirm shag ecloses from fluming
helical caul, then retreats.
I take on white noise,
occlude as old world revenant,
rattling chains to
jounce the static of your gaze.
Primary succession. No goodbye.
And when black earth
seethes fade, rangers locate
flameskinned bone,
hear the gooey tar face
pop and spit, and that is that.
Annie Grizzle
comfortable between keys or connected strings it’s not
tricky transposition obliging
v
erging
on summer wear
layered,
i do not hold you dense
heartthrob
Steve Gilmartin
—For Amber Kathleen Ryan
Fingers jump back. Singed heredity. We lurched into our cabin, overlapping, hardly thinking. Certainly not to photograph. Beneath a sea of emerald readings. Seaweed trails from an arm, spills out her mouth. Just finger as company and its small cymbal comforts. Imagining myself determined and safe behind the camera. Running in front to record happiness, de-awkwardized. Four hands display. Followed by days of uneven sun. And with waterline’s roses, we drip to one side, portraying ravaged contrarians but children still.
We off board on time, which holds a sign that says THREE WEEKS. This calls for recalibrated trajectories. Propelled from a single fuel, we land quadrants apart. Autumn enters, brief but unmanageable. We constabulate, making the rounds as if we were self-governing. Tiny ideas are hopping all over us. Somebody’s money had been itself. Maybe that was the secret behind our flickering expressions.
Jaime Garcia
then you wouldn’t understand the people we’ve been.
in a field, the last scenarios left on earth
fight each other
and the broadcast shipwrecks in your throat.
to celebrate the end of the visible universe
we smoke a fuckton of honey oil
and wonder what expanse it is that we really haunt.
the first law of emergencies:
that they are never consumed with this much quiet.