It was alright
to meet you that first night
is an understatement what
Analogy exams are worth a whole lot
of nearly nothing
is to overstatement. Really:
What could be more radically ideal
than the whole forsaken universe being
Online Exclusives
Short Films, Spoken Word, Music, and Visual Art.
“Praise Where I Can” by Derick Ebert
Chalk lines stretch across eroding
black top, pandemonium is tasting soot
in the mouth, names become ash
when memories are buried. The earth can’t save
the hum of voices, the way Pompeii can cradle a body
from extinction, I’ve learned
home is where death is least likely
I cannot live here.
“Boxcar” by David-Matthew Barnes
A screenplay for a short film
Adapted from the one-act play
BOXCAR
EXT. AN ABANDONED TRAIN YARD; A SMALL AMERICAN TOWN – NIGHT
The night is providing a false sense of calm.
The hour is late.
Beyond a quiet, remote gas station is a cemetery for trains.
Stillness blankets the train yard. Empty, rusted rail cars litter the space, discarded and long forgotten.
Beyond the perimeter of a broken chain-link fence, the landscape is sparse and the horizon is endless. In the distance, a faint glow and flicker of lights indicates civilization exists in the form of a small town.
From opposite ends of the yard, two young men approach.
“The Tall Grass” by Sharif Shakhshir
The tall grass grows
at the northern edge of the peninsula
where rodents scuttle like electricity.
Mom says, “There is evil out there:
monsters, thieves, gamblers,
and people who aim to gain from your failure.
But there are no badges of honor
for staying home.
The way a brush must leave the pallet
to make something great,
you must leave.
“The Theatre Department” by Christine Stoddard
When you study acting as a biracial girl in the South,
you will never portray Scarlett O’Hara,
only ever Mammy
because your program head does not think “protagonist”
when she sees a mulatto.
You are an accessory, like the dogwoods that dot a plantation.
Werewolves: Poem by and Interview with David Aristi
by
Seth Copeland, Publishing Editor
Sydney Vance, Senior Poetry Editor
Werewolf Viejo
By David AristiGold been beaten outta me by
Every passing year, lo que queda
Funciona despacio — what’s left
Works slowly.
The beastly things
I miss, but in war, South Central, or in Juarez
Juárez La Jodida
Or think Aleppo, those goat & sheep sins would be laughable
TodayConfieso porque me he vuelto demasiado viejo para presidió —
I confess because I just turned too old for hoosegow:
I’d need Viagra for the Moon now: I can bathe for hours in
Her boob milk light and still remain
A pure old man standing in the night,
Tan Viejo que hecha de menos odiar su bastón —
So old that he misses hating his walking stick.
I’ve been known to bring dead pigeons
To the doormat of the widow
To express my affections, but leaving room for doubt, for kicks.
Till one day on Christmas I show up with a feather in my hat
Featured: “Millionaire” by Mab Jones
When we think of love, we see big, romantic gestures, flowers, and long kisses in the rain, but it’s so much more than that. Mab Jones, poet and writer, reminds us in her poem “Millionaire” that love is a collection of simple moments, quirks, and affectionate interaction.
