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Winter 2014

Continuous Cities

After Italo Calvino As he enters the city of Araceli, the traveler feels that he is being watched, and he is.  To get to the city, he must first pass through a long tunnel of mirrors. There are few places to stop along his journey into the city, but when he does stop, it is [...]

Alien War, Human War

      written on the tenth anniversary of the Iraq invasion       1. Death is an underwater bird, not a bird at all; an eel with wings. It is a metal bird loaded up with techno-artillery. War, this war, war between the eagle and other birds-of-prey (different prey). Death is depleted uranium, radiating strangeness into the [...]

“The first to arrive could not understand what drew these people to Zobeide, this ugly city, this trap.”  ~ Italo Calvino   In the lingering Erotic City of Ghosts no one does laundry. They do not do laundry because ghosts do not sweat. Night turns into day—and day to night. The citizens can appear at [...]

Cemetery Boy

The porch light is on, but what it doesn’t reach looks like the inside of a coffee pot. No lightning bugs or stars for hope of relief. I read a poem to him under the light and he laughs at my serious face, my stumbling voice. “I liked that line about porn,” he says between [...]

Colorado Street

The truck shifts iffy but the engine thrums regardless, I’m rumbling   through late winter early nights not knowing what gear I should   grind deeper into. What I know for sure—on concrete roads named   after states I’ve never made wishes within—is I’m too old for certain   reverse, have lived my share of [...]

jouer au flipper

1. The woman waits on the shore. She hears the waves’ song and finds it rough like sand on a lover’s skin. She cannot displace the noise with her own words. Such news admits no modulation.   If she could learn the ocean’s song, Would it matter? And what then of the men Who make [...]

Kes Woodi

The red grasses. That’s what I remember. Threading my little brown hands through them on the hills in Oklahoma, my mother calling in Cherokee from the warm little cabin in the distance. The smell of smoking meats. It was so beautiful. But the memory is even more beautiful. Even then, I knew I was born [...]

The Church of Poetry

There is something wrong in the World of Poetry (of course, something’s always wrong, which is part of the fun).We quibble over doctrinal disputes like the institution we love to hate: the Church. How many recovering Catholics, or any denomination, have found refuge now in the Church of Poetry, this “better scripture”? Yet if we [...]