Three Poems // Nicholas Grider

1 ///

dented, dusted, hosted, huge and solitary but
there isn’t solitary in the push-button this
isn’t the wrong way to start

 

it’s so easy to say:


2 ///

wet blanket instead of a tired heart
frozen tongue the cure is simple grow

spare frost, hide it in multitudes and candy apple
silence, a procession

instead of a heart, parallel lines except
derailed trains derealized nuzzling, low-end

thought pattern paralysis and there’s no I
am leaving the light on for who’s a cult

-ivated now (preceded in death by
the question mark)


3 ///

ending an “everything everywhere” with let’s begin
minus something somewhere within glowing

elocution lessons in “how dare I do what” minus
let’s not discuss the past drainage ditch magic

hours terror twilights erased shrugworthy you
can’t build tents on host’s, his intelligence re-

ports in a storm, your huh, you’re the doorbell,
golden platter, split-tine salad fork, angry drunk

only to have arrived at forming a sentence, or
he was destined for sentience, or else let’s begin

 

Nicholas Grider is an artist and writer whose photographs have been shown internationally, whose first book, the story collection Misadventure was published by A Strange Object in winter of 2014, and whose work has appeared in Caketrain, The Collagist, Conjunctions, Guernica and elsewhere.

Rose Further Blooming Into Black Black // Dan Encarnacion

how the skeleton steel seethes with teeth
gnashed around a glass-eyed bat

her voice supercedes the facture of city speak
a sky-bound zeppelin my name rising pushing

up against a monochrome canvas ripping sharp
sutures of dirty dun crusted Converse strings

the asp-man writhes into a whole
the jaw unhinged her her unhinged jaw

her jaw unhinged unhinged her jaw
troposphere ours adheres to dirigible skin

expanding the ellipsical ellipticity enjoyed
making off with to counterpane enjoined

a head exposed an exposed head
head a exposed head exposed a

rose further blooming into black black
folding into pinching into flap a insert b

 

Dan Encarnacion earned an MFA in Writing at the California College of Arts and lives in Portland, Oregon where he co-curates the Verse In Person poetry series. The bleak of Bela Tarr, the spare of Supersilent, and the spike of quad-lattes will palpitate his palpus. Dan has recently been published in SPLIT, Upstairs at Duroc, Cha: an Asian Literary Journal, and forthcoming in Assaracus, Gobshite Quarterly and and/or. He was the featured artist for Reconnaissance Magazine’s 2013 issue.

Hephaestean Rib // Dan Encarnacion

seems as if we are corralled somnambulists
slicing vectored wakes through sponge-
scrimmed dark
faces heavy as hammers in hands
of flailing Nietzschean Neanderthal Nosferatus
forging pillars of salt

threaded waves of graves wind-whipped white-tattered
and born red to taste plastic
umbilical tubes slipped through a nose nappies taped
to catch creative prowess a caucasoid
child made swarthy by
capillaries singing to flush the skin warm wish-

bone-jointed found buried beneath dark meat on the Last Thursday before
December white meat left-over too dry

Dan Encarnacion earned an MFA in Writing at the California College of Arts and lives in Portland, Oregon where he co-curates the Verse In Person poetry series. The bleak of Bela Tarr, the spare of Supersilent, and the spike of quad-lattes will palpitate his palpus. Dan has recently been published in SPLIT, Upstairs at Duroc, Cha: an Asian Literary Journal, and forthcoming in Assaracus, Gobshite Quarterly and and/or. He was the featured artist for Reconnaissance Magazine’s 2013 issue.

Strawberry Well // Michael Keenan

A passing fire, Paula’s
cold song circles a
revolver, a
diary

A dead man, face down, in

A painting of a pool.

Michael Keenan received his MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University. His first chapbook, “Two Girls,” was published by Say No Press in 2009, and his first book, "Translations On Waking In An Italian Cemetery," will be released by A-Minor Press in May of 2014. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2011 and was recently chosen by C.D. Wright to be featured in the PEN Poetry Series. His writing has appeared in Fence, Alice Blue Review, Shampoo, Paul Revere’s Horse, and Arsenic Lobster, among others, and is forthcoming in Poetry International.

Song of a Man Who Has Come Through Dream Cars // Michael Keenan

One more rung, in
the full-beard neon, in
the crime,

of Laurel’s hair.
One more rung
to dance like wind
on, the roofers watching
behind two castles, we
see

The Pacific Ocean, we
do, in one/perfect/line

from my hearse to yours, but

First, the black art.     

Michael Keenan received his MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University. His first chapbook, “Two Girls,” was published by Say No Press in 2009, and his first book, "Translations On Waking In An Italian Cemetery," will be released by A-Minor Press in the spring of 2014. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2011 and was recently chosen by C.D. Wright to be featured in the PEN Poetry Series. His writing has appeared in Fence, Alice Blue Review, Shampoo, Paul Revere’s Horse, and Arsenic Lobster, among others, and is forthcoming in Poetry International.

A Geometer Relishes His Fear Of The Horizontal Axis // Shakthi Shrima

Unrehearsed,
a shape mouthed to the hitch
of the immaculate before frenzy, lavish
with the curriculum of quicksilver
his hands have become; spits small crimes
of erasure, flint-fisted and posthumous, spits

plunging curves and the noose
of her nomenclature, spits garbled lattices
ruined and haughty, planes clutched, planes
sagged with asymptotes; corrugated wrists
twisted with the husk of each slope, the flinch
of tangency; spits

the bough of something
swallowed by itself, the churn
of each projection splayed in his space
without pause, the strewn inspectors
of a narrowed eye; spits this confluence of exactitudes,
spits

what doubt? He’s built
a steel claw for his shuddering
beneath every point, raking each surface until
what won’t be stomached
quiets to the pivot and croon
of the place numbers go when divided
by zero, the line
between fear and awe.

Shakthi Shrima has been restless with words ever since she could read. When she isn’t doing math, rereading Nabokov, or writing, she can be found behind her camera, drinking coffee, or humming at obnoxious volumes. Her favorite poets are Mark Doty and Neil Aitken. She will probably cry if she doesn’t get to be an algebraic number theorist, and currently resides in Austin, Texas with her Dracaena braunii, Aristotle.