you leave the other on the road when your car careens into the woods & your
airbags deploy & your seatbelts are a god your state doesn’t believe in but the
windshield is a stubborn gate you break yourself trying to break open & it is too
bright to rupture the forest with headlights which  means its still early enough
to bring a body to the coroner & discuss who will call the dead fawn’s mother.

Stand facing east.
There is a seedy dive bar on the corner to your right.

Turn 90 degrees to your right.
There is a tattoo parlor.

Again, turn 90 degrees to your right.
There is always a 15 passenger white van with a graphic photograph of an aborted baby’s head in the clasp of a pair of forceps, ever blocking the entrance to the abortion clinic.

Again, turn 90 degrees to your right.
You’ll see a line of very large people, ever blocking the entrance to the Souplantation.

Being pretty
is how a museum feels

All the money
located in one firm spot

someone owns a mansion and they invite everyone to the mansion

To sometimes
drink wine and listen to smart people think smart things

Wearing perfume
or cologne and spare jewelry and black clothes and shaved legs and clean hair

is a museum the location where it’s luxury to gather and hear intelligent things

Queerer Weather

By Marty McConnell


Language itself inverts, subjugates, and this means
we don’t have to go home alone anymore. This
is a chair that folds out into a palm tree
and I can’t stand Los Angeles. Language
is the locus of all tyranny. Also, love
offered like water, the mouth giving and giving
before coming to silence, before saying
I could give you all the noise in this body
and still the door wouldn’t close. This chair
doesn’t turn into anything and it’s

my favorite. It’s a chair. You
were born in California and that’s
OK. When I consider what it means to be
a tyrant, I think about the need to chew
seventeen times before swallowing. And how
the food slides down the gullet then, already
part digested, less like itself than radio


By Manuel Arturo Abreu




By Sarah Xerta


When people come to me I want them to feel like they are standing at the edge of a lake. I want to be reflective like that, cool like that, calm like that. When they touch me I want them to feel infinite and not because of me but because of them. I want you to love yourself, why don’t you love yourself, who’s been stopping you all these years?

I study neuroscience and know we are infinite. There are a trillion neural pathways in each of our brains, it’s no wonder we feel lost, it’s no wonder we always find ourselves anyway, blinking up at the light like the children we fear we still are.

We still are.

Roll it into a log
Get it wet
Place it at the base of a tree
It will grow mushrooms
I know this because it is a mushroom poem
And because my cat fights herself in the dark
Like my father did in prison
My father said that is all you can in prison

I can do anything now
Because this is my mushroom poem
This may not make sense to you
But the sky doesn’t make sense to me
And I don’t come down to where you work
Asking stupid questions about the sky

Must another love story end, and how, and when? Asthmatic, shifty,
and hood-zipped with snow ghosting the 2 AM Kalamazoo avenues, Ann and I
hunch and hobble the hospital parking lot
with our tube-socks soiled, the dead asphalt buried in dirty slush,

the automatic urgent care door yawning open, and we want
to spill our emergency all over the hallways, but insurance forms, signatures,
the blank faces of receptionist
cashiers cataloguing, monotoning, two photocopies, two keyboards,

an examined and re-examined ID, and as a wallet fumbles open painfully
from a purse to squeeze out an insurance card, the hurt widens, widening, and Ann
doubles over as if some tank-grenade has detonated
in her belly and is still detonating, its shrapnel spreading

the only thing that
upset Mr. Jain more than
the death of his dear wife
a day before, was, when he
returned home from the
funeral, to find her shadow
lingering near a cupboard
in the living room
startled, out of his mind
at first, two days past, he
grew to adjust to watching
the wraith move around the
place, get lost in dark rooms,
and against the pitch black
wall of the study, disappear

There was the loneliness I kept in the cupboard
next to the sugar & the pile of dead ants
I told you in confidence I was done with sex
You didn’t laugh but
I could tell you were laughing
Have you looked in my sock drawer lately?
I lie/I don’t have
a drawer for my socks
My room’s a mess
There’re newspapers guarding
the hardwood from black paint
In another life this is all very interesting
to you/to me
In another life my mother is a falcon
The apartment smells like eggs
Sometimes I dream I wake up
covered in blood & I’m not sure
if it’s mine

Honey hones
its honesty

right off the comb,
no distillation

What is sweet

in Athens is
sweet in Oakland,

in Ames. At the party
last night I drank

until I drowned. This morning
my body language spoke

only in spasms and whispers,
the twelve months

of my face
clouded with rain.

Puerta del Sol:

In Puerta del Sol there are living statues. An ocean away from home, she watches them and pretends she is someone else. Their eyes are eerie, barely-blinking, hovering like moons in their cracked metallic facades. They maintain impossible poses; minds are still moving, but the act itself transforms them. They don’t look her in the eye. She is drying her wounds with the saltiness of Iberian ham, chewing the fat like gum.

One blue hour simmers on the stove, steam rising
like a slow train up and over the mill line —
still-life burnt in coal, black heat, skin cold-split
in the third shift. The radiator hisses.

Flurries dance on the wind in spun madness. She
presses her hands to the hot pipes, looks out across
the Pittsburgh grey, soaking it in, spreading it like a blanket
across her memory — thick like miner’s dust, an iron door.

She wears gloves to bed, wakes to the itch of wool,
startled by how her fingers feel like someone else’s,
how rough they’ve grown — like a man’s — inside
her winter skin. She pictures the man, bright within

her childhood dream-head like the light at the end
of a shaft. He is twice her size and she can’t see
around him. Warm bourbon breath that melts the snow
before it lands. The game will be played in the big wooden house,

“Oppression makes even God smell foul.”—Felipe Luciano

Reading the newspaper I feel like an accomplice;
a voyeur is also guilty of something.
So the murders, the corruptions
and calculated larcenies against the spirit
reside in me too.
It’s easy, I suppose, to pretend
I don’t pay rent to the conspiracies.
And that the church is immune
because it’s tax exempt.
But from a landfill or cemetery
grow multi-colored flowers.
Who can say then
from what polluted soils
my blossoms will spring?

Cat Lady

By Sarah Xerta


And it wouldn’t be the strangest thing
if I never had sex again, but that’s because I’m having
sex all the time, my eyes like two clits, my ears
like two clits, my mouth. . . Today I’m drinking
coconut tea and looking at photos
of women I’ve never met, their spines like hybrids
between xylophones and violins, throats like galaxies, all the moons
sleeping in their bellies, and I wonder
why I’m not a lesbian, why
I don’t want to reach out and touch them.