Poetry
Click on a piece below to view an excerpt. You can also view/download the entire poetry section of the journal. There are two poetry pages.
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Four-Letter words to suck on by Quinn Rennerfeldt
Four-Letter words to suck
I curl into an S:
is it the Scoliosis
or is it the sex?
Iím fairly sure
you arenít a disease,
even though
you feed on me.
You flood my veins
while the brassy reflections
in your silver eyes
catch in my chest
and I cough. ÝìYes.î
Some stupid
four-letter word leaks
out of your mouth
and I become an S.
You become the T
beneath me.
I curl into an S:
is it the Scoliosis
or is it the sex?
Iím fairly sure
you arenít a disease,
even though
you feed on me.
You flood my veins
while the brassy reflections
in your silver eyes
catch in my chest
and I cough. ÝìYes.î
Some stupid
four-letter word leaks
out of your mouth
and I become an S.
You become the T
beneath me.
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A Hypocrite, on Trumpery in Writing by Angela Precourt
A Hypocrite, on Trumpery in Writing
I hate it.
The way we write believing the tongues on the ends of pens
have breath to resuscitate the ebbing daylight
As if we could conspire its yellow into being
We write believing words have the billowing
spilling mass of nations
and the strength of kings
and as if one king, one man
ever had anything life didnít give him
(He curls oxygen over his tongue
through his throat like a barbell)
And if I use this word
work this phrase just right
i tíll go through your head like
the most gratifying bullet and all your applause
will equal the body-building strength of
my perfect...(more))
I hate it.
The way we write believing the tongues on the ends of pens
have breath to resuscitate the ebbing daylight
As if we could conspire its yellow into being
We write believing words have the billowing
spilling mass of nations
and the strength of kings
and as if one king, one man
ever had anything life didnít give him
(He curls oxygen over his tongue
through his throat like a barbell)
And if I use this word
work this phrase just right
i tíll go through your head like
the most gratifying bullet and all your applause
will equal the body-building strength of
my perfect...(more))
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One hundred voices crying out for help, but I canít hear them.
One hundred voices crying out for help, but I canít help them.
The shrieks, those of eels baking in the sand,
Out of the water they cry, and soon they die.
They are pleas, a mother for her son, a son for his neck,
When it is forced to carry the burden too great,
Swinging from the pole of the gallowsí deck.
I ask the rains to save the eels, to end their misting screams.
I plead with the Nothing Black Abyss
to return the sons to their mothersí breasts,
But the rain only dampens the eels, seconds of relief.
And the Nothing Black Abyss
Lacks ears to hear my beaten weary chest.
One hundred voices crying out for help, but I canít help them.
The shrieks, those of eels baking in the sand,
Out of the water they cry, and soon they die.
They are pleas, a mother for her son, a son for his neck,
When it is forced to carry the burden too great,
Swinging from the pole of the gallowsí deck.
I ask the rains to save the eels, to end their misting screams.
I plead with the Nothing Black Abyss
to return the sons to their mothersí breasts,
But the rain only dampens the eels, seconds of relief.
And the Nothing Black Abyss
Lacks ears to hear my beaten weary chest.
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Private Transportation by Marisa Beahm
(This poem is better viewed from the (original PDF file) file due to formating issues..)
Nervous people ride the bus.
tap
dance
feet,
press personal accelerators
Chronologically fixated people,
eyes to wrist,
wrist to timetable,
timetable to road
and still
no bus.
Upon arrival,
we cram,push,shove
into
rubber-tinged air of anonymity,
where uncollected coke cans,
..(more)
Nervous people ride the bus.
tap
dance
feet,
press personal accelerators
Chronologically fixated people,
eyes to wrist,
wrist to timetable,
timetable to road
and still
no bus.
Upon arrival,
we cram,push,shove
into
rubber-tinged air of anonymity,
where uncollected coke cans,
..(more)
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For a Dutchman by Allison Mundorff
I know a man who sits alone
Each day on the line 22 bus
With a gray Scottie dog perched on his knees.
He counts the canals in twos and tens
And forgets about the narrow alleys
And their textures.
His little dog always barks.
He barks at the twisted lights
And the ultramarine graffiti
On their neighborís arms and neck.
But the man whispers to himó
Het doet er niet toe
And kisses him behind the ears,
Until the compacted bodies and their light
Finally reach their stop.
Each day on the line 22 bus
With a gray Scottie dog perched on his knees.
He counts the canals in twos and tens
And forgets about the narrow alleys
And their textures.
His little dog always barks.
He barks at the twisted lights
And the ultramarine graffiti
On their neighborís arms and neck.
But the man whispers to himó
Het doet er niet toe
And kisses him behind the ears,
Until the compacted bodies and their light
Finally reach their stop.
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Altered Memory, Now Complete with Soundtrack by Angela Precourt
Four bridges north of Spokane, where hills are
shaped like giants asleep in the bones of
the fields, greener than the emerald of
pines in silver headlights, the hills in
unending procession stumble on the
ankles of one another. In space of two
(dominoing) is a farmhouse where four
cats linger around a torn black-screen door.
I slept on its aged ash floors; the hardwood
blest beneath my tired, grateful body.
That night, alone, I broke the candle shrine
with the guilt of graffitiiiing a church.
In the morning, I stood by the second floor
window to frame the tree holding her wood-slate
swing above the white walk. The sun lit the yard
with portrait lighting; the girls breached the hill
shaped like giants asleep in the bones of
the fields, greener than the emerald of
pines in silver headlights, the hills in
unending procession stumble on the
ankles of one another. In space of two
(dominoing) is a farmhouse where four
cats linger around a torn black-screen door.
I slept on its aged ash floors; the hardwood
blest beneath my tired, grateful body.
That night, alone, I broke the candle shrine
with the guilt of graffitiiiing a church.
In the morning, I stood by the second floor
window to frame the tree holding her wood-slate
swing above the white walk. The sun lit the yard
with portrait lighting; the girls breached the hill
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cellophane wrapped brain to keep whats sane in...
minds fracture like glass shards
like hearts
cutting the plastic into parts
leaving worn bits behind as the departed gets started running.
i tried using rose stems to hold the pieces in place.
they bore holes with thorns
where the once torn
held me in place.
there is a vacancy in space
not so unlike the waste i find iíve built.
trash cannot be erased
and is as invasive as silt
working its way into every nook and cranny
ohh... manny, i understand you brother.
shaking in the closet
as the world bears down
minds fracture like glass shards
like hearts
cutting the plastic into parts
leaving worn bits behind as the departed gets started running.
i tried using rose stems to hold the pieces in place.
they bore holes with thorns
where the once torn
held me in place.
there is a vacancy in space
not so unlike the waste i find iíve built.
trash cannot be erased
and is as invasive as silt
working its way into every nook and cranny
ohh... manny, i understand you brother.
shaking in the closet
as the world bears down
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Some content. Some content.
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