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.

Electricity, Yes

Matt Dennison

Always more comfortable among the strange,
prone to jump the garden fence at any startle,
I tossed no flowers upon my father’s grave
as he tossed no flowers upon my mother’s.
From eloquence to secrecy’s sublingual
inconsistencies of faith, I would, like math,
a more exotic womb in which to place
our fathers’ tongues for jaw’s own faults—
that vault wherein we all, gentle as a glass
of thunder in facile rat-skin glory, are born.
Death, that dog best undisturbed, that wonderfully
suffered child, Devastation’s blackened pit bull
enlarged by solvents’ hollow change, will gnaw
upon our moldering names.

Trump as a Fire Without Light #93

Darren C. Demaree

White gold, time alone, this bison tips over at the idea of actual wind.


Soren James

I was awakened early this morning by the scaffolders next door. They were shouting up and down their construction about Mediaeval imagination and the birth of nationhood. I yelled out the window, What’s with the academic bullshit! Get a proper job, like the rest of us. They told me where to go, then began upon the subject of aggression and gender identity.

Still angry, I put on a clown nose, a red fuzzy wig, and left for work.

Driving was hell in my clown shoes, but I managed to crash the car near enough work that I could walk the rest of the way.

I entered the offices, and as I passed those gathered by the coffee machine, a phrase came to mind: The psychology of hell is strewn with coffee tables. Putting this to one side, I went to my office to attend to paperwork.

Eight hours later I went home. The scaffolders were still there, still shouting—discussing the possibility of intelligent life in the universe. I shouted up at them, Impossible, don’t be so stupid!

My argument seemed to win them over, as they conceded—in surprisingly good humour—that it is doubtful.

Elephants and Rain

Matthew Schmidt

Savannah rain a careful glove
on the elephant’s ear, an ah or peanut.
Not a peanut, a chrysanthemum,
cavalcade of horses romping
cliff, a considerable moth
covering the porch light. Twilit
elephant wrinkles. Some more
trees, terrible breakfast aroma
late in the day. Yes, some laugh
like the world is smaller than it is.


A. Molotkov

A bullet-size hole
in my chest; my best

attempts at love escape. A story
of wrong doors opened

in a wrong order. A multiple

choice test. A towel I left
on the beach

the morning
my mother ran out of air.

The Breakneck Boys

Amanda J. Bermudez

& 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

View High-Resolution Video

Potiphar’s Wife Talks About that Time

Deborah Bacharach

In the end Joseph did all right for himself.
Because he was in the dungeons,
he called the dreams, and from there
he worked it like he worked it in
my husband’s home, putting together
puzzles of rain, watching hands,
oh he watched, roll pastry dough
on marble table tops. I saw the oasis
shimmer at the edge of the horizon
like I had been walking toward it
my entire life, like I had been crawling
on my hands and knees.


Maureen Alsop

Krishnamurti said when the one you love goes, a part of you follows. Typewritten gnats spill greasy birdseed tunnels. For a moment there are two worlds. Spring presses toward me through glass; my garden hallway, a clutter of moths in milky silt. Crocus unpin your breastbone. In all eventual acts, humans compose ghost.