Deep Fried

by Steven C. Babin     Super fried chicken, where are you today? American fried like sweet apple pie. We all sit disguised behind the deep fried, National symbol . . . crispy, crunchy, mmmmmm! I was a pilgrim in this great nation. I was born in this land a foreigner, I was born in this land an outsider, The soil that is mine does not reflect, My birthright, my tender hearts deep regret, My country tis of thee, was not for me. Fry me in the fryer with all the rest; Make me forget, no more life to regret. … Continue reading Deep Fried

Heartless & Forgotten

by Steven C. Babin   Guide me through the storm of absence, Where I was once kept remembered; No spot of memory is left, Time is both enemy and friend.   You left for me an open shelf, Where I once was kept remembered, But those pants and socks are not mine. Or did I forget who I was?   Could I have forgotten who I am? Am I that broken and alone? No spot of memory is left, I’ve tossed aside my own substance.   My Empty tank needs a refill, Yet I crave only past fuels fire; Once … Continue reading Heartless & Forgotten

Progress Traps

by Mark Vogel   Surely better not to know. how many there could be, how often puny humans lived wrong in patterns now documented by academics— like when ancestors herded mammoths over the cliff, until none were left. Or gleefully slaughtered enough passenger pigeons to feed the world, until they were gone, no chirp remaining—nothing but the Smithsonian stuffed stare. How often the misguided circular killing/eating/fucking excess established, beyond individual/communal free will, how a dance or shuffle could end with no planned goal, no epiphany— Amen bluefin tuna delicacy until every big one is caught.  How often a culture can … Continue reading Progress Traps


by Michael McConnell   We watch the same sun fall, twisting fingers of cloud,   reaching toward a green that could never match your eyes   reflecting hanging vines or a thousand points of frost, the scent   of your neck, a streamside hammock where time falls apart. Birds start   praying when rain, like knees of the damned, pound, shatter into blinding   slivers of art, a spiral of tangled mirrors, the memory of dust.   Then you kiss like thunder, separated by those three words. One. Two. Three. Then lightning. Continue reading Strike


by Brandy Clark Here we are, in the middle of a garden of stone:  plaques, tombstones, angels with faces worn down like the smooth rocks of a riverbed. Here we are, in the middle of a dump of bones:  coffins occupied by skeletons crumbled to dust, dust I could gather and sift through my fingers.   Well…   I want to say something sincere in its sincerity, something touching, say I hope you’re in heaven or wherever people go once they lose the eternal game of Red Rover, and go over the line from voiced to voiceless, from living to … Continue reading Eulogy

Antler, and Flint of Bark

by Genevieve Pfeiffer Maybe the deer are not capitalists, do not see each other as belonging to one another.   Don’t call them foolish— they vote   which direction to pursue with a mere tilt of their heads.   Perhaps the alpha does not have access to pleasure —is pleasure a capitalist peculiarity?— but to unassuming moments, unaware of their potential to be ranked and sorted:   sharp tang of grass, warm body mounted, rub of flank on bark, thirst.   They could if we spoke deer, tell us but perhaps it’s a language not to learn, but to tilt … Continue reading Antler, and Flint of Bark