Poetry of the Non-Prose Kind

Words that Glide Past Cryptid Hunters

KJ Hannah Greenberg

When records open to eclectic simulacra,
Spinning like Disney’s hippos in tutus,
They prove, again, business’ isotopy.

Poor craftsmanship’s happenstances,
Offering no signs of fiduciary rendition,
Cough or hack vis-a-vis virtual reality.

The illumination of the actual orients generative
Grammar, remains the stuff of speculative fiction,
Gives over ideological pablum in horrific doses.

Accordingly, the offspring of self-fulfilling critics,
Signify that certain observed objects produce
Alternative paradigmatic events, also plum jelly.

Metaphysics-oriented tackle, needing existential
Importance (and access to fine bibelots) rots since
Opinion relies on perspective, bribes, good teeth.

Before we delight in empowered organizations,
Clarify hypotheses on earth worms, maybe caviar
Should support theories that generate royalties.

The Red Disk

Tim Adams

—for Joan Miro

one does not
blanch
a river’s
milk in
a trench

The Cheated Will Shape It So It Fits

James Blevins

she—he—& me:
three little glooms

three wounds corralled

I will drink to that
& to hammers
& to their flat, red impacts

Wheel

Jari Chevalier

Weeds blow
among ruins. Stones
cut to fit tight, fortress
razed to three
stones high.

People selling antennas,
fried bananas,
brooms, scratch
their chigger bites.

Cuenca’s cathedral,
where I place my running
shoes on the steps for someone,
light a candle.

Ornaments, vessels,
tools for killing or making music . . .
Incans lived without the wheel.
Vendor piercing

the square with ice cream
cries. Little hands,
sticky with ice cream,
washed in the colonial fountain.

In the market,
so many
chickens on spits
and a girl sobbing

beside a wire bin,
so overbrimmed
with chicken heads
they slide right off
the edge of the rim.

Lookout Mountain

Rick Alley

Stuffed with the tongues
of hummingbirds

the snapdragons
stoically choked

through August into
fall.

Mother heard
the thunder

days before
the storm.

Of course, her nerves
were a spine

of army ants
on fire.

A Tiny Crown

Martha McCollough

O Bug bug bug bug bug…
—John Hollander

Little musical hairdressers, His
favorites sing with nail and comb,
natter rhythmic clicksongs in His ear,

so many variations after the first
essay: pool skimmers to slide over
shady waters, little kitchen demigods

ruining the flour, nano-lumberjacks,
and you, assiduous worker, proud
to roll your ball of dung in the broad

field of His approving gaze: a God
so plainly fond of you if otherwise
unknowable, capricious, obscure.

Paradise

Christian Tanner

Christian Tanner Paradise
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Court-Bouillon

Clemonce Heard

is what French militants dubbed
the fish head mélange, but we say
Coubion, because the fewer syllables
the less bourgeois. This is no tartare.
This is the muculent skull of an arrow,
stirred into a stock with the butts
of scallions & celery, jealousy & snot.
Like Goliath’s lot, this too is prepared
for the sovereign, along with its guts
dangling from where the severance
took place. If a scalp is clutched
by its locks there is a face, if clasped
by its beard, a squid. Crustacean
shells & grey shallots may be heaved
in to give the stew more of a zing.
To ready the king’s palette, intestines
snipped from beneath the pectoral fin
are waved before his anointed brow,
in a hypnotic baiting, blood clotted
grapes. Here, he must bite down
& strain every drop before hawking
the putrid skins across the raw slate.

Appalachia

Will Cordeiro

A woodchuck munches
on a bruised crabapple
beyond the clothesline
where we play badminton.
It wobbles off, past mulch

and duff, snout dabbling in
rough muckage. Dandelions
lush the lawn with blowsy
ghosts. A truck guzzles up
a fog of yellow dust. Mizzle

stuns our horse-pond. Knuckle
deep, seep jellies over periwinkles,
whole brindled bundles of them.
A backlit buckle of felled trees
now doubles in it. Autumn,

and my life is almost over.
No, it only feels that way. Really,
the overcast erupts in slender
tinsel. Fat glops of frog spawn
slurry. The faint light suffers.

The Breakneck Boys

Amanda J. Bermudez

prettily-lit
& laced with that wealthy haze
insinuating older gentlemen
(aged less by trial than by trouser-ironing better halves)
practiced in rain-based exchanges of words
an hour here or there
in rooms kept safe
barred from the breakneck boys
by the legitimate sons
however dumb
(however deaf)
in letter jackets
linens & ties crafted for the occasion
crowded ’round
listening carefully for oceans
in shells
hallowed out
for the purpose of being easily swayed

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