Let It Ride, Cassie Hottenstein

* Cassie Hottenstein has a BA in English and a minor in Creative Writing from the University of North Florida. Her poetry and stories have been published in such places as The Talon Review, Every Pigeon, Inklette, Solid Mercury, and the Tampa Review Online. She was a lead editor for the collection Exothorpe as wellContinue reading “Let It Ride, Cassie Hottenstein”

Halite (NaCl), J. MacBain

a girl in leatherlays down in theclub bathroomhandle my side ribssoft andhail rock n rolla tiny fever dreamI cannot feel others carefullyessential for Saturday morningtear hangovershoverbut do not leaveshe’s an anchor addicther diet heavy with thewill to dissolveif cleansed by watermy nervous systemfalters, too muchdamage scrubbingdirty windowsteaching thewhys of pollution * J. MacBain-Stephens lives inContinue reading “Halite (NaCl), J. MacBain”

Taxonomy, Shaun Turner

My memaw was born in a community named Letterbox,because, for a time, the residents took their mailfrom wood or tin letterboxes they’d nailed to the trees.There was a Letterbox School.My memaw, for a time, learned her letters there.Now, they call the community Parrot, like the bird.In our neck of the Rockcastle, community names morph. Eventually,Continue reading “Taxonomy, Shaun Turner”

American Mother, Sarah Lilius

Doesn’t leave the house, the newest baby screams all night, all day. Colic thorns and her skin bleeds like a tattoo, the sound is a skull shape she slips into. Loses it over dirty dishes, remnants of dinner float like greasy body parts, corn kernels are the yellowed teeth of her husband, a wet breadContinue reading “American Mother, Sarah Lilius”

Blue, Purbasha Roy

I have seen more skiesthan what my eyesever could absorbso I know much bluei tie rain beads in my hairat end of thirsty braidshumming songs of oceansremembering shadows of skiesquiet blue of the noonstiptoes inside corridors of eyesdandelion seeds drift in maturing sunlightreinventing blue quiddity of pallettein grisaille canvas shards * Purbasha Roy is aContinue reading “Blue, Purbasha Roy”

Mulholland Drive, Glen Armstrong

Mulholland Drive I am talking about what.In fact gets said about talking.And arriving.My conclusions are pretty.Out there.Like nebulae or David.Lynch’s reminders that art.And that which art depicts swap.Swimsuits more often than we.Realize. We arrive at a secret.Performance of Roy Orbison’s.“Crying” in the middle of the night.Because this world is made.Of light and polyester.It turns onContinue reading “Mulholland Drive, Glen Armstrong”

Mass-Pet-Wolf-Teeth, Liam Kelley

Sometimes I wonderif I could keepa wolf pet—mighty as a bell-crown—that I might take it outunder the big orange moon-haze and it wouldn’t eat meor crucify me in some holeto the right of the bathrooms. I would sit sideways therein my front-left seat,door cocked openand music pealingfrom the car’s strike pointswhile it sat in theContinue reading “Mass-Pet-Wolf-Teeth, Liam Kelley”

At Times, Purbasha Roy

I picked a poemlying beneath street lightsrain water burgling beneath my skinit’s no surprise, I think of youhorizon washed by sentencessprung up from voice of skies sailorin waltz of versesbefore meridian eyesrainbows out of infinity’s framefalls in empty spaces between syllablesi was told, stars touch moondustin woods of silhouettesunknown to metaphors dwindling in candlessmiles inventContinue reading “At Times, Purbasha Roy”

Shift, Larry Thacker

Rain comes slantedfrom the wrong direction,as if we can nameright from wrong weather, splatting into front windshields today,rather than against the rear end of traffic. itself in gigantic swathsof cloud and wave. We are blind,attentive in the same breath. * Larry D. Thacker’s poetry is in over 150 publications including Spillway, Still: The Journal, ValparaisoContinue reading “Shift, Larry Thacker”

Finding Myself, Jacob Butlett

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” ~ George Bernard Shaw Where did I leave it? I wonder in the kitchen.It’s not under the inverted teacup or unwashedcoffee mug—not in its domed domicilelike an Eskimo snoring in an igloo. I walkinto the hallway, but I don’t see it sittingin the painting onContinue reading “Finding Myself, Jacob Butlett”