Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind

All That Good Stuff


take the prose of a poem   the teeth of a grin
lost weekend of a savior   heyday of a has-been

golf shoes of a president   a jew’s christmas cheer
a punchline in german   the court eunuch’s leer

warren beatty’s crow’s feet   johnny depp’s address book
the mouth of a mime   the vow of a crook

take a scrivener’s eyes   a blackmailer’s file
straightedge of a schoolmarm   a judge’s denial

the twitch of a surgeon   a divorcée’s glow
repose of a greyhound   a yes man’s hell no

the staple from a centerfold   bouquet of a bride
stand in line for a seat   bite down hard, open wide

take an open house tour   through a boychild’s wet dream
hey diddle diddle   don’t make a scene

take the prose of a poem   and a guilt-wracked scapegoat
hey nonny nonny   death row clears its throat

Guitar by Chuck Prophet


Alicia Cole

The turtles are mudded down,
The air dank with leaf rot.
The new house that faces the bluff
Is all timber, everything
Bare-limbed this November.
I have three layers on.
The trees are one.

Rothko Before the Color Fields

Joshua Gottlieb-Miller

Lord God of Monochrome Beauty,
forgive semi-abstraction.
Who cares for a single ear

rotting among ripe fruits?
Slow the art and speed
the lie, sliding

your foot closely,
close enough,
see a mosquito eat

at that plum. Blood meals
nourish diseased beasts.
Trompe l’oeil:

Spend long enough
with black canvas
in a chapel

by a dead man,
it purples, reddens.


Karen Stanislaw

something says
keep the curmudgeon:
bat with teeth, brainy
guy, heel, nun’s ass –
keep this furniture.
the lame attempt at
pecking at logs.

Donut Man

Meg Eden

The man outside 7-11
sells hot fresh chromosomes
for 10 cents. X
chromosomes only.

Men eat them, wanting
to become women.
Women eat
them because
they taste like America.

O. Henry Don’t Leave Us

Theodore Eisenberg

One leaf clutches dirt with
vertices, its raised abdomen
blotched red, as if a blood
creation, holding on.

On Maggie

Jennifer Wortman

Egg me on, magi.
I’m a man, see?

A golem on lease.

Slam me,
name me,
son me,
age me.

Am I loam? Glass?
A seasonal song?

Missile me gone.
I’m a lass, see?

As no one, I’ll gleam.

Mimosa Pudica

Michelle Chen

 plant apoplectic
in the river of time what I thought
 sweet water and thread
lifting clear pink satellites
 field risen, rippling
in tune the blue coast
 if a drift face I hope you get
how to lead someone to water
 there’s no other paper
that sleeps like me
 dipping as if
to fit into bottles
 in the dark heat rolling
thin sleeves of green
 when touched the fold
I found sway not shy
 if I close when touched
move move then drink
 half-full, the waiting
 evaporated spaces
 guess attack or death-play
the sleep’s root in reflection
 if the best example of holding
 is a moon and a barrel

The Prop is Not an Apple

Katy Chrisler

It is not too late to meld splendor with the
Bodies that grow from instruction. Her outlaw,
Common sense. He, underground. “They got it
Wrong, the gods we have.” I can feel your steps
Unravel with the clarity of youth. A blossoming
Of raw beginnings. There is no ordinary along with
All their other oblivions. He doesn’t get a full house.
The statues will recover with menace, forecast:
“We can try again to want less heraldic colors.”

hands down are roots to lift a well

Glenn Ingersoll

There were two of them, both empty.
A ringing continues in the larger bell.
He tells me he can feel it days after the striking.
A storm at the horizon sputters with amber lights.

One world waits for its hunger. Presently, it has no stomach.
If listening is required, you’ll want batteries.
That was, once again, the wrong noise.
It came at an opportune moment for the argument.

Where is the zoo? Near the natural falls?
One alarm was always false, an unimportant one.
Solutions were proposed and tabled, soon perfected unused.
The last attempt succeeded, but in a direction that left them behind.