Barzakh Variations

by Ben Nardolilli


I started thinking that I should be thankful

I didn't have cancer, in the end

I just put down the cigarettes and took up

The sweets, from table to mouth,

In them were other complications,

But I never cured them, I didn't have cancer.

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A Poem That May Or May Not Be About July

by Dan Cuddy


July is like Juicy Fruit gum

sweet but taste leaves early

the more you chew, ruminate, contemplate

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by Alexander of Lawrence


Ghost riding through the boulevard of untold tales, while engaging memory lane at every toll.

Swerving & merging onto the avenues that are found on the crossroads of every floor at the end of every story.

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by Valentina Cano


You've acquired a sticky lacquer

to your skin

that traps dust and panicked flies

as they roam by.

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I'll Call You Sometime

by Edgar Bagayan


We triumph, yet our victory

becomes short and ugly -

and we don't care.

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Cherry Blossom

by John Stocks


This was our time

Joy sings from letters, diaries

From the forces that would shape us

Sings in a ravenous lust for life

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Points of Attraction

by Laura LeHew


in memory of Paul O. Williams


it didn't matter

people thought you were his daughter

that you always exclaimed we're "just friends"

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2:35 A.M.

by Peycho Kanev


The grass is shaking

but not because the storm outside;

it’s filled up with the red ants of

death–so pure, so alive,

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Plastic House

by Collin James


I learned how to drive

in its soft corners,

smoked cigarettes

on the cracked wooden stairs.

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by Dan Corjescu


You could have done better

You should have done better

Wash your face

Clean your shoes

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Style over Substance

by Ivan Jenson


Everyone knows

life is so much

better with a fedora hat

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15/10/11 Piccadilly, Manor House

by Alexander Wyatt




False name, false destiny,

Caught in a careful trap,

A fugitive,

Watching, waiting.

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For People Confusing Young Black Men, Like Myself, with Deer During Hunting Season:

Written in Response to George Zimmerman’s Exoneration By the Florida State Court

by Nahshon Cook



Last night, I sat in my room like a Mongolian lark looking out the window from behind the bars
of its bamboo cage at a sparrow in the tree–and feeling like a flower pot that never leaves the
front porch, while I prayed to Erato for a story that would make me human again. She arrived
dressed in a pair of big, carrot-orange butterfly wings outlined in white, polka-dotted black trim.
After I'd grabbed something to write with, she recited this poem for me:

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Solar Plexus

by Jules Archer


In that moment of collapse

when hearts or guts

fall to the floor

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The Law Of Unintended Consequences

by Jéanpaul Ferro


At the beach she asked me if that other girl,

the one with the red bikini and long dark hair,

was prettier than she was;

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Looking Upward

by Cynthia Staples


Into the branches of the towering oak

I saw first the cardinal with feathers brilliant red

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A Night in Room 928

by Nicholas Wong


With you, I prefer my single bed,

proximity so naked. Your birthmark unhiding,

a reminder of life-long imperfection.

When I turn around, I hear its breathing –

Defects have a life of their own.


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