Three-liter Cola, zeppelin of delight and angst, we imagined your dares at once contained and floating to our bodies.
We imagined each empty spin— steady propeller or crash against knees, crunch of plastic, bunch of: do it like this.
We imagine how simple a twist of the wrist until our turn, a bumbled one, bounce of the bottle, tilt of the world lasting the longest seconds.
Look how you settled, the unholy and holy—genesis of desire swelling in gasps.
When not teaching at the Community College of Denver, Brian Dickson avoids driving as much as possible to connect with the quotidian and the sacred. He also serves as an editor for New Feathers Anthology as well. His chapbook, A Child’s Sketch of the Afterlife, recently came out from Finishing Line Press. Find him at www.dicksonwrites.com.
a blackbird flies backwards from tinted window and you are caught in its starling shadow waking cracks climbing the sides of these feeble buildings
the buildings are in a perpetual state of falling only grey skies hold them in place
the grey tone of your voice contemplates weather as if that were the only geranium your throat could grow
it is better to speak in chrysanthemums, lupine, perhaps shooting star
this city led you, little antelope, into a cunning enclosure
you never learned how to jump, never learned Indian Paintbrush but you know how to run
wide open calls you home in a language of blue blue that holds your heart in place, keeps it from killing you
your pillow was covered in blackbird feathers if only it were a sign
winged thing sits on your chest in the night to cry, but not in words
paved over rivers can still drown deer brothers and sisters, if only this were fable
then struggle would be no more than lesson transformation wouldn’t be so fatal curses could be lifted with the correct incantations
you are hooves and ochre, sawdust and iron blessed by coarse calico, be they ropes or binding
this city called to you three times and three times you answered with lips like milkweed
your geraniums are malnourished monotone grey where is the wild thing you once knew? was domestic chosen for you?
remember to run when the wind calls remember the buildings will fall do not let them take you when they topple
you are so much more than this Underland and ash you are flowers and flight you are the generation of beginning
plant your seeds in the mouths of everyone you meet may it be brighter when they speak to sew gardens over civilizations
a place without shadows or fences where antelope run and run, and run
Aspen Everett is a full-time parent first and a writer as often as life allows. Hailing from the wide open plains of Kansas, Aspen writes with wind in their lungs and muddy rivers in their blood. Aspen is the author of Tributaries from Middle Creek Publishing, Instructor with Lighthouse Writers, and chair of Geopoetics with Beyond Academia Free Skool. They live in Boulder with their teenager and stubborn house plants.
A GUIDE TO SLUMBER; A TIRADE WITH TANGENTS; A MANSPLAINING; A SURRENDER
BY DUSTIN KING
I was asked at a party how I sleep at night it is a delicate balance we dread the midday nod the yawning the staring beyond consternation missing invital information
we dread midnight MRIs self-diagnoses silly ruminations false revelations realizations we assume true for everyone
pharmaceuticals failed us fucked us up we can’t get into it so CBD melatonin in a pinch but it makes us groggy black-out curtains ear plugs but what if we miss the first screams of catastrophe plus wax build-up
we avoid alcohol caffeine one sip and we stay up laughing with whoever will have us
masturbation is unreliable it sends us across wastelands of regret wanting we were someone else with someone else
our minds like dreams like our lives a notebook of scrawl left in the night pages flapping tearing scattering we try to gather
our hands pinned beneath us in unholy yoga poses we sign curses into grimy sheets we throw our phone across the room oh, would we could snap it in half
peer in windows neighbors’ faces lit yellow by the light of the netherworld ogling netherregions portal through our very hands
or through the refrigerator in front of which we stand scratching ourselves
light light light squeezes through every pinhole and crevice like water or an octopus tentacles reach for us we reach for tentacles we march across an alleyway to smash a floodlight with a chunk of pavement but the blue blink of laptop modem humidifier moonlight starlight dawn
signals to somnambulate the streets come to at front doors of exes burning with shame lovers who burned in bed with the heat of a lightning strike body-locked us like pro wrestlers
we writhed free gasping for air extinguished ourselves in a cold shower
do co-habitators bind and gag each other? do they sleep the sleep of dogs in dens sharing heat and odors?
in dreams we fall but never hit ground flirt but never fuck if we rise to pee as we must once twice a night we can only contemplate bedwetting for so long
we stay the dream in our heads even if the home invader’s head vibrates and falls back on a hinge the horror softens once we welcome the dark figure under the covers
memory’s phantom limbs wave dream bits like bone shards if we could recall it all we’d desire nothing but the thrill of rest the earth might replenish
we’d only wake to whip-poor-wills like our brother whispering in his sleep warblers like mom and dad are fighting wrens like they make love one last time
Dustin King would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and exchanges dreams with loved ones in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in The Tusculum Review, New Letters, Ligeia, Marrow Magazine, samfiftyfour, and other rad spots. He is a poetry reader for Sublunary Review and curates the poetry and performance event “Yodel Farm.” His first chapbook “Last Echo” is now available from Bottlecap Press. His second “Courteous Gringo” will be out this summer from Seven Kitchens Press.
roof tiles gray and thin falling away in the sun like ash ‘round my feet
windows cloud and warp with the long passing of one too many hothouse summers
the paint outside cracks and flakes – bare patch betrayals ebbing pulse lull
the kitchen screen door sticks—hinges in need of grease— in its ever-shrinking frame
floorboards ‘round the stove creak and sink underfoot, it’ll need a cleaning soon
pictures on the wall faded, some slipped from the hook, crash down in silent thuds
dust storms in dark corners, settles ‘round pillows and teacups I write “Wash me, please”
but
the studs are solid, foundation holding strong. Ghosts seem to know their place
and
the morning cock still crows in the yard, pecking at its lil yellow stones
David Estringel is a Xicanx writer, Professor of English, and EIC with words at The Opiate, Cephalopress, Dreich, Beir Bua Journal, Literary Heist, The Blue Nib, The Milk House, and Poetry NI. David has published seven poetry/hybrid collections, six poetry chapbooks, and one co-authored novel Escaping Emily through Thirty West Publishing House. Connect with David on X @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidestringel.com.
On December 4, 2024, 27-year-old engineer Luigi Mangione assassinated Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealthcare—who had made millions denying claims— outside New York’s Midtown Hilton.
Baby Lulu, as they call him, has many TikTok wives. One in Beijing
cooks puttanesca with penne. My husband, which is Luigi Mangione,
she says, stirring red pepper in her sauce, needs comfort food from his culture.
Others cut wedding cake with their hero, whose black lashes & threaded brows,
so tender & misunderstood, accentuate the necessary beauty of his deed.
Does his anachronistic name kindle some ancient hope, conjure a revolution
fought on Garibaldi’s side against a crooked pope? Lesson Learned,
The Wall Street Journal intones, Tighter Security Priority for CEOs.
I find comfort in stillness when blades kiss my skin and thundered tongues hail down my name. In the grey, I close my eyes—
and let the rain mourn me.
Latoya Wilkinson is 20 years old. She is currently a rising Senior at the University At Albany, studying Journalism and English. She doesn’t have any intentions of being a poet, but she took two poetry classes and realized that she would much rather write than breathe—and that says a lot.
I passed it unawares, others fallen, rotting with perfume pervasive as the gnats forming my halo and feasting delicately on the membranes of my ears and eyes.
I knew the yew had metaphorical heft, but failed to remember the sources. Nowadays memory fails faster than legs which also begin to falter halfway.
Nothing prepares you for death— isn’t quite true. We know in our bones that shadow from the hill will only lengthen as the day wears on.
Yew, I never knew you in your glory, having never walked these woods. But is it a crime to feel no sadness for a tree that perished naturally?
I walk toward a clearing, heavy in my heart and heavier-legged as I seek something more than communion with a natural death.
Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and storyteller. His work appears in a number of print and online journals.
I have stolen the dandelions scattered their seeds across
fields of tulips and tamarind I have felt desire crack
my lips apart under the weight of its slippery skin
What fresh figs, what sunny flowers What breaking hearts
rot beneath the hills beneath sticky sidewalk pavements
We grow older but not duller hovering translucent over
calendar time
Sara Whittemore is a poet living in Houston, Texas. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa. Her work has recently appeared in Interim Magazine, Juniper Press and Tiny Spoon, and others. In addition to being a poet she is an artist, alien and cat person. You can find her on instagram @sarafromsaturn.
Fished a moth presumably Miller out the coffee pot presumably dead.
Again, no talent for judging life.
Everything learning to walk is Bambi except for people.
I hate moths and hate them more when they’re dying in front of me. So stunting. So honestly dying. The gall.
drank the coffee of course i drank the coffee boringly. To myself. I wouldn’t write the poem if I didn’t drink The Mothra Jus Wouldn’t submit the poem if I didn’t drink The Mothra Jus And there’s flavor in being misunderstood Pollinators. So, yes, down.
Burned my feet on the fire escape Where it dried out in a bad way something awful uncomfortably.
Then life again more than caffeinated only so poisoned
drowning those on the surface underneath it’s downpour
you are very much as the spring this year
we can only pray hope is real practice deep breaths plan in positive accord
as in what may grow
closer
perhaps the squirrels will not eat the strawberries but better to put a barrier between them and the fruit
I’m sure the weeds and wild grass will stay a few weeks more green before the summer sizzle
maybe we may take advantage of both the growing tumble and the withering
to pull from the rain and the land the best we can
to add to the home we share within us
set the table prepare the meal and may neither one of us be cut
the cosmic within and without
BY TED VACA
YOU MIGHT WANT
to think deeply
about where you
come from
To Think Deeply About Where You Come From
TO
THINK DEEPLY
ABOUT WHERE
YOU COME
FROM
to think
deeply
about
to open the eternal
gold-fringe lined
burgundy curtain
on the stage manager's signal
let the show begin
step upon the stage
stomach in turmoil
mind electric
your eyes
wide wild
and excited
to accept what is
within
is without
to accept what is
without is within
the universe s
s p
l i
a r
out and in
unfolds engulfs
consistently for a manufactured
lineage of time
the universe
doesn’t care about
TIME
time manmade time the cursor
from birth to death and how much
can you accomplish
time the accomplishment
measure of worth and meaning
time the killer the waste of
the sought after for proof of
deeds and diplomas
the microscopic
is C O S M I C
the cosmic is
microscopic
the embryo in their sack
utero evolving galaxies
spinning and star beings
born in a chemical-chance
at becoming only to be seen
in awe by the dark matter
that surrounds
Incomprehensible!
our eternal selfs
witnessed
mirrored not above
not below
but all around
breaking the novelty of direction
the compass explodes and the earthly mind
is set free of dimensions then intuned with the way
then again becoming unknown
as a dream
separated
from the expansion
we’ve not far to go
to reach & realize
Ted Vaca, Denver poet father lover crime fighter / semi holy somewhat sweet can be bitter / published here and there / Founder of The Mercury Cafe poetry slam / Coach of the 2006 Championship Denver Slam Team / Member of 1995 Championship slam team from Asheville NC / Intergalactic Provocateur
south broadway press 