god damn. things have changed
here. they do, and I don’t know
why I wouldn’t expect it. the crowds
packing camden like cans
in a freshly stocked fridge.
girls with tattoos and canal
birds which drift under bridges.
once I was here, and a thing
young and fresh as a beer
on a sunny afternoon on a patio.
stop at a bar I frequented
at 20. ask for a beer, read
a page from a book I just bought.
joe’s tavern is closed now
but the hawley is open. once
I would sit in this corner and see
the sky pouring like fluid
to glassware. after, I leave
and walk back toward kings cross
where my wife’s having lunch
with a friend. I’ve been 32 years old
for 6 months, which isn’t much.…
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The god perches on a throne of bricks;
Behold a man’s body with a bull’s face.
Surrender presents to the ruler.
Outstretched arms will always reach for more.
A furnace forged of copper.
Jaw gaping, eyes radiating red,
maddening in anticipation of the meal.
Seven chambers in his chest feed air to the flames.
An archway exposes an opening into his belly;
Four stomachs are his true domain;
Rumen, reticulum, omasum, and abomasum.
Wet acidic bile traded for dry ashes and hot coals.
Greed chars the kiln.
He is never full; feed him.
He consumes all humanity,
and it still isn’t enough.
– Maxwell Bauman…
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It was unwise to believe,
that when Colombia departed from her mother
that evidence of her existence would rot
the same way that the night fades into memory
the second the calico punctures the sun
and bleeds out onto the water.
Her charcoal braid runs into the countryside, unravelling
becomes the gravity that divorces from God
water from the oil,
sunlight from the soil.
– Amalia Danilo…
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a hummingbird
sips from
our feeder before
flying away
returning
fifteen minutes
later an impatient
diner
she glides
tilts
finds a red
lobelia and
goes there
silently
– Kenneth Pobo…
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Landscapers remove
weedy bushes
in smoke
from distant fires.
A dead-looking sky
inert in a cloud coffin.
Saws blare. Branches
heap up.
The crew leaves us
with more light
that I stand in,
briefly, before
returning to
our closed-up house.
– Kenneth Pobo…
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Home reeks of lime
and mildew. We hoist
a box spring through the second-
floor window—
dirt beneath creme brulee nails,
tip-toeing around next door’s
double panes, the clatter
of a dead woman’s rose-colored
dresser drawers echoes
in the afternoon.
– Rebecca Ferlotti
Note: This piece was originally published in Mock Orange Magazine (2013, now defunct)…
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my country tis of thee—
invade women’s bodies
deport non-white people
beat up leftist voices
my country tis of thee—
no food for the poor
no meds for the poor
no homes for the poor
my country tis of thee—
cut down the trees
poison the water
pollute the air
my country tis of thee—
sweet land
of tyranny
for thee i grieve
– Ron Torrence…
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