Winter 2016 Season

Work from the Winter 2016 Season of concīs.


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.

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza

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.

[winter dusk]

Danny Blackwell

winter dusk
   looking back
I turn to nothing

from The Introvert’s Guide to Dreams

Brian Clifton

Luckily, you’ve separated a calf from its herd. It darts into the woods. You follow, your entire family at your heels. Together, your panting fills the forest with moist and rhythmic movement. If you sense anything, it’s that nature doesn’t always want you inside it. But there you are, gnawing through nature’s ribcage. You drag the calf from the woods into the light. It is not alive; a pulse remains in your jaws.

You stare at the river from the bridge that spans it. Your chin rests on the metal railing. You feel the bridge start to shake. When the wobbling becomes more pronounced, you hear the footsteps—marching toward you, fresh from the blackberry patch, an army of children, their mouths smeared into a constant opening.