by Sonia Greenfield

If you listen close To the shell-shaped cookie You can hear the ocean

And the sea’s fortune speaks: You will never know hunger. As if it were simply enzymatic

To digest this idea. As simple as bread in mouth To quiet the din

Of organs consuming organs. The noise cries up From my belly

Even after the food gets eaten, Because appetite does not succumb To matters of meat.

Take for example The flesh loneliness Of a room solely occupied.

This crumb and water subsistence of one. A crash diet; the sense of shrinking; A body starved for [...]]]> by Sonia Greenfield

If you listen close
To the shell-shaped cookie
You can hear the ocean

And the sea’s fortune speaks:
You will never know hunger.
As if it were simply enzymatic

To digest this idea.
As simple as bread in mouth
To quiet the din

Of organs consuming organs.
The noise cries up
From my belly

Even after the food gets eaten,
Because appetite does not succumb
To matters of meat.

Take for example
The flesh loneliness
Of a room solely occupied.

This crumb and water subsistence of one.
A crash diet; the sense of shrinking;
A body starved for attention,

Until we feed and give back
And feed again in the cyclical chain
Of pleasure.

As in the lover
Who consumes my orchard,
Heavy with bearing,

In exchange for his grain—
The field wide with the fury
Of a good growing year.

by Stephen Gibson

This is what men do when they can not sleep: They sit and write poems to you through the night, Or they wander the alleyways saying your name to the universe, Over and over again, rehearsing your name like the answer To a question they want to be asked. They do this again and again so that your name becomes Foreign in their mouths. Repeating it so often to the storefront windows And to the blue lightning pulsing in the clouds, Your name becomes strange, Use has made [...]]]> by Stephen Gibson

This is what men do when they can not sleep:
They sit and write poems to you through the night,
Or they wander the alleyways saying your name to the universe,
Over and over again, rehearsing your name like the answer
To a question they want to be asked.
They do this again and again so that your name becomes
Foreign in their mouths.
Repeating it so often to the storefront windows
And to the blue lightning pulsing in the clouds,
Your name becomes strange,
Use has made it
Unfamiliar. Still, they search the city
All night long thinking they will run into you
At every corner and through the black light
Of every night club.
But they have missed the point.
They do not understand what it means to have the heart’s dreaming
Ripped from the heart’s muscle
And then to have the heart shot off this planet.
If only they could have your name back they would remember
The taste of a sadness, the sensation
Of this longing.
Then they would be able to sing these songs of trains
And women leaving, and their guitars
Would be terrified by the chords floating from their wooden bodies
And their women would become frightened of their places
In the lyrics of these songs—
Songs of turmoil, songs of anguish, songs of the cities in the sky!

By James Kerns

Another Hemingway Sunday Eases by on a gin and khaki breeze, The afternoon fading to caramel And nudging unfinished hangovers Into fuzzy recollections. Our shirt collars are queued to another sunset, Another black X marked on the calendar of dreams, Another round of blurry oaths sworn to glass reports.

Gray city, who shall call you when the siege is lifted? Who will wave-off the masses plucking your bazaars, Fondling your customs, slipping your secrets Into the pockets of their travel pants? Legions of mail-order expatriates cruise The sleekness of your nights Brandishing [...]]]> By James Kerns

Another Hemingway Sunday
Eases by on a gin and khaki breeze,
The afternoon fading to caramel
And nudging unfinished hangovers
Into fuzzy recollections.
Our shirt collars are queued to another sunset,
Another black X marked on the calendar of dreams,
Another round of blurry oaths sworn to glass reports.

Gray city, who shall call you when the siege is lifted?
Who will wave-off the masses plucking your bazaars,
Fondling your customs, slipping your secrets
Into the pockets of their travel pants?
Legions of mail-order expatriates cruise
The sleekness of your nights
Brandishing independence and living from café to curb,
Throwing languages from their lips
As bread is tossed to vagrant animals.

Favorite geographies are recounted like old lovers
With the same nostalgia sun-ripened mangoes
Excite in taste buds and callused palms,
A banquet of flavors sprawled over the past
Grown more beautiful and irreplaceable with time.
Each speaker stirs his drink
And quietly endures the others in turn
For the chance to recall those promises again
As though they were still out there
Waiting for them in the gathering twilight.

This poem will not be Depressing.

It won’t talk of the wasted Energies of humanity Pictured each day in the framed faces Of bus windows.

No, it will not be slow, Tedious, or boring.

It will not be another ode To loneliness,

Nor will it reminisce Missed chances, or the furtive Glances from which we turn.

No, this poem will be about A song that slowed time To a near stop -

An acoustic guitar, the slow Pluck of chords, no more than Three notes at a time.

The soft padding of fingers dampening strings To prevent sounds unneeded, Extra sounds That [...]]]> This poem will not be
Depressing.

It won’t talk of the wasted
Energies of humanity
Pictured each day in the framed faces
Of bus windows.

No, it will not be slow,
Tedious, or boring.

It will not be another ode
To loneliness,

Nor will it reminisce
Missed chances, or the furtive
Glances from which we turn.

No, this poem will be about
A song that slowed time
To a near stop -

An acoustic guitar, the slow
Pluck of chords, no more than
Three notes at a time.

The soft padding of fingers dampening strings
To prevent sounds unneeded,
Extra sounds
That would only complicate.

No, this is about a single human voice
Singing nothing
But

Oh.

(my baby’s gone home)

- Jason Ward Boyte

By Jason Ward Boyte

Remedy chaos With tabernacle glue. Martini slants      just as sticky

The lure of stasis, We pour out into tiny puddles To settle and congeal,      becoming solid in a (spineless) way

The rainbow in the puddles of oil Behind the Church of the Nazarene. There’s gold there for the taking.

The soldier in uniform Laughs in line, A reflex.

The angles of his hair (the smooth around the ears and neck) suggest machine.

The butch cut Of social gas, the Flavor of pig Is practical      (like coupons)

Somewhere a boy spins a wheel Of his own making down A narrow dirt path

A [...]]]> By Jason Ward Boyte

Remedy chaos
With tabernacle glue.
Martini slants
     just as sticky

The lure of stasis,
We pour out into tiny puddles
To settle and congeal,
     becoming solid in a (spineless) way

The rainbow in the puddles of oil
Behind the Church of the Nazarene.
There’s gold there for the taking.

The soldier in uniform
Laughs in line,
A reflex.

The angles of his hair
(the smooth around the ears
and neck) suggest machine.

The butch cut
Of social gas, the
Flavor of pig
Is practical
     (like coupons)

Somewhere a boy spins a wheel
Of his own making down
A narrow dirt path

A plane flys above
With payload.