Marpole, Vancouver: for Liu Yu

by Changming Yuan It rains a lot in Vancouver Often does this rain remind me ofThe days when you sojourned here With my family, after Father left all of us While walking in the rain, you would Recall, under my big umbrellaHow you once waited in a drizzle With me in a broken basket on your backTo cross the widening river, not farFrom our village when I was crying hard For a large spoonful of flour soup (you were tooWeak and too hungry to produce any milk) Seeing you do nothing about my hunger The ferryman asked, Where is its … Continue reading Marpole, Vancouver: for Liu Yu

Duck Soup

by Robert Lang There is no sadness in the city where movies are our lives: Duck Soup. Beauty concealed with yelling and gold streets.   We’re skipping our feet down the golden pavement, and we swing our arms with outsiders to the station, and our jolly outlook mirrored as police beam back, and his honest eyes lie behind his safety rifle.   We bask in the warm hostility of the A train speedily reaching West 4th, but there is no sadness in the city where movies are our lives.   Minstrels sift through radiant crowds, each pair of eyes fleeting … Continue reading Duck Soup


by Robert Lang Prue and Gordon no longer one, occasionally showing compassion, love.   Prue and Gordon eating the loblolly of their love a ring, then a crash, Gordon has fallen in love three times past.   Prue and Gordon, they knew, he needed a few years to love true. In Gordon’s departure Prue picks his cufflink, tips it in a dark tin among sentiments forgotten within. Continue reading Within

When the Creative Dies

by Mark Vogel   How to breathe in Washington State when everywhere the tall has been pulled down, and a heavy leaking sky reaches the ground— when every hundred feet on a straight-line road allows another pothole, another lumberman’s gate listing owner’s rights, another stream glutted with mud and prehistoric moss. How to breathe on a journey covered in grey overcast, pulled like a magnet toward Olympic peaks— an imagined mountain lake never inching closer. How to breathe when the spindly young need decades to grow trunks and a million stumps big as tables rule.  When even out here, civilization … Continue reading When the Creative Dies