Rodney Nelson



       from the Swedish of Bo Bergman
Unkind spring is here now
with sun on roof and wall
your eyes run and your head is
emptier than a blown egg
you could even get sick
from all of this white light
glittering moving flashing
that's about to drown your house
glittering moving flashing
that hits it like a breaker
opening the innards
to public view and shock


        for Erin Smith
On the road of unwritten saga
there will have to be a lake that no one
has recorded or even half known
                     migrant pelicans
will have granted it
to many a loon and a midnight
that may not expect you
                     no matter that
you will walk up to the unfinished
cabin of who wanted to write the place
whom the dim lake would have recognized
                     and must have
run or been run away on
that same road
                     must have come as you will
to a silence now folding in again
many a night bird joining it when
you will put your own hand to the saga


kari edwards

Something fails to realize

Something fails to realize, something casts another other opaque profit bloom elsewhere.  I ask someone for more time in a field of time, where there is a chokehold on language, in the masses, in the throat, in a gag reaction, in the unbroken people yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  Afraid to speak to something anything, fearing the fear of fear, afraid to speak to the fear of fear, or tell tale hearts turning to something rewritten to too many forgotten first mistaken, before not written.  To be sure, someone invades the margins, secures the premises, quotation marks disappear and reappear.  Everyone attempts to guess who is looking under what underneath layer of flesh.  The many missing,  impossible possible, overdetermined nonbelievers,  acknowledge the road does not exist, the line does not exist, forever is forever broken, never a conduit for listening,  call out, our blood is your blood, our house is your house, listening for another exit possibility to exist, in another other's cry for love

Sybil Kollar



South of here people read the water, an automatic pistol raised
with wild hands, the mosquitoes' soft buzz under a red window's
glare its nest of fire in this city of NO. I'm amplified and stumble
upon a bookstore with the sign: DOG'S NAME IS INDIAN.
I'm set to carry out the dog in my arms but inside there's nothing
except floating spoons and a portrait of a woman wearing a turban.
      Someone says come away but we've already dissolved into
this falling hour like passengers who have run out of moments.






Lanny Quarles

My Eye Is a Twisted Skinless Dolphin Lyre


             for Sekitani Norihiro
             (such as it is)


orange magma skull
upon whose brow lay
a floating isthmus
whose weeds are
black lambs with
garish wax paper
lantern heads
from which twin
sisters peer
naked as garbled chromosomes
with faces like platinum scolex
connected by bridges
of simple silent mystery
balloon organs yodeling
through scream-fluted thorax accidents:
This cold day of fire looks
looks timorous
as timorous as an avalanche
of foetal cities suppurating
upon the ribbed flange
of some random
trachiovaginal altar
of solitonic dew blasts
Gondwana everlasting
Radio isotopic mud jesus antigen
with green meat-armor paradox
severs the umbilical
of rationality
upon the swaying scissoring
vibrolaser ciliation slab
whose formless paean
is the yoke of amoeba-headed
farmer worms
who pass black blastomeric engines
into the solar camera hexagon abomination
which as an empty field of snow
seems like a moth
frozen in an amber spleen
a moth made of tiny memories
like hands reaching through
a stylized silk rectum
embroidered with fluorescent
calligraphic capillarica
autobahn for zombi avatars
whose radiation profiles
are like cocoons of plasma
involuted through insect ape frames
whose ornamental mandible chandiliers
weave hallucinodjinns
protein ghosts
snipped by light
speed keratin




Michelle Greenblatt and Sheila E. Murphy



Scents on pillows are the hills we have escaped
Which slither toward us on our sheets when we sleep.

God, so we read, is everywhere at all times,
And the flowers and motion sensors, and the trees.

Look at the way the eyes draw in each breath
Driven into red basalt by monsters.

We chased the gold across the water but
Interpretations are on fire tonight.

Excerpts from a diary snipped into confetti;
Letters written a priori torn to pieces, too.

In the comfortable dark of the lakebottom
Were coins repolished by the granularity.

What if the imagination had been overwrought
Just as the light had sleekly curved around the darkness?

Geometrically perfect shapes make a good
Caravan left poised in position of a crawl.

Crayons melt atop the car ledge during daylight hours
Makes an array of colors to dip one's fingers in.
Water wears the earth when it rains just like
Jewels across the skin, beading to light.

Story is full of plots and their particular ingredients
Just like water wears the truth of the impression one's skin makes in it.

I walked downslope to hear the noise grow wider
Than a tantrum, loftier than seeds thrown high.

Mosaic wings divide the atmosphere into broad sheets.
Morning acquiesces its power to the afternoon.

The wind is sewn tight with leaves and dust
Controlling the otherwise still night.

Captions left on stems held firm before withering
Label for the used-up life that sits on the shelf.



The stiff gods who have met so unlovingly over time
Their inventors thus seem to relinquish their own hatred.

Fingers retrace boundaries as if to underline
The shadows that the map makes when it remembers you.

Diaphanous leaves adorned with flowers
Filter air and tilt the silken day time.

Timbre lingers in a recent mood detected
By the axe when it strikes the unwilling trunk.

The river reenters the morning and yokes the silence
In the way that skin invokes feeling unequal to depth.

A painting is the way out of supposed real
Remnants of volume existing in frequency.
The worst possibilities only happen when
One's imagination fails to capture spun light.

Serapes change the limits of the breath
With each of the variable keys.

Death is a master at all games save for
The deciduous trees pressed in the yard.

Slow joy mentions itself in sheer whispers
Duplicating the effects of passion.

The halfmoon dictates behavior as do
Melody, starch, headrests, broadband music.

Loquacity breeds another person's silence
To calibrate the workings of a message.

Ignoring punctuation is one way to
Let the syllables come forward well apart.

Vines seem imprecise, transplanting part of selves
Scattered across earth, improvised leaf to leaf
The tossed-around words in the chamber of the mind
Reveal contiguous realities as touch.



Jan Clausen

from “Two Circuses in Winter”

I took it in from the bus stop,
midnight, New Year's Eve
how a crowd in cardboard crowns
intent on fireworks
turned its back on the has-been moon
a sallow rump affair
shedding listless beams like dandruff
on the extinguished hulk
of the Brooklyn Public Library's
Grand Army Plaza branch.
A girl in hot
pink spectacles that hailed
(as if time's passage needed promo!)
Two Thousand and Five
peered through sequined zeroes
at the swank fusillade.
I too thrilled
to the rainbow detonations,
money shots,
our New Year of War.

Jeanne Shannon

Les Vergers en Fleur




Canvas 1


At the restaurant table, wine glasses upside down.  Turmeric, ginkgo.  Orange light. Enamored of starlings, grackles. Undergrowth.  Point to Japanese models.   Chestnut tree in blossom.  Diagonal bracing.  A cottage in Cordeville.   I am working in a grim rage.      July in Chaponaval.  Unrest on the left side, picture composed in a classical manner.   Hills of Meudon on the horizon.  Now I am working on a field of poppies and alfalfa. Journey to the South bears fruit.  Return to Paris on foot, wearing a smock of blue zinc.
Space and objects do not correspond.





           Canvas 2

In Arles and Saint-Rémy, citron light at the foundations. 
Economies of green.  Cut back the picture edges.  Look into the landscape through trees.  Tige d'amandier, brought into blossom in a glass of water.  Souvenir de Mauve.Brush strokes flicker.  Not yet wheatfield with crows, bruised violet sky.  Lower edges of lightning. 
Fringe of the void rising.







Alan Sondheim

as god is my witness i am invisible
vanquished every second from the presence of sight
evanescent site and languorous possession
god is my witness and god will lean back
god's breath is visible through eyes shut tight
at the center of every lotus my empty hands
my bony hands my hands of many bones
my hands are insatiable my hands drink the sound of the world
they strangle young peddlers and seize their bread and water
these words write themselves in the sound of an unknown language
the steep road passes through jungles of iridescent flowers
my palms press my eyes my eyes press my palms
unseeing unlooking unsounding the presence of hearing
the presence in the sight of god of an always dying man




Janet Jackson


An Update for the Pilgrims Guide

To: mailto:
Subject: an update for the Pilgrims Guide
When finally we reached the temple we found it collapsing,
one brick at a time.  Some walls have peeling paint; others
have layers and layers of graffiti from years of pilgrims—some
disappointed, some angry, some sad, and some clinging to their
obsession and leaving flowers, photographs, little handmade cards
and books, and more than a few pieces of clothing. Leaving their
offerings (and teddy bears. did I mention the number of teddy
bears? and the money and bottles of whiskey, which a smiling
attendant collects after the pilgrims have finished their
tearful or ranting obeisances or their hair-and-clothes-tearing
or their hysterical shrieking). Leaving their offerings and maybe
their delusions on a concrete platform, its chipped paint as grey
as the sky.
We entered the temple and found it stinking. Stale cigarettes,
old pizza, last night's whiskey. The priests were out
drinking in a bar down the road, except one who lolled in
a back room, half-dead from heroin. When the others returned from
their “meeting,” they injected him with something to reanimate him
so they could continue their parody of the sacred rites.
We had journeyed to the temple, a group of us, full of love or
longing or fear or exultation, and a few who came along for the
photo-opportunity, full of derision. But when we saw the
mess and the useless priests and the grinning, well-fed
attendants, even those full of derision became sad, and those
full of exultation collapsed on the filthy floor or ran into the
littered niches, crying their thunderstorm tears and howling their
blue-black howls.
But it was only when we heard the muzak that we began to
mutilate ourselves.

Bob Marcacci

electrical devaestro
 input no put out
       though connectical
      go figure triggering
   loop pan delay chorus
don't bore us with your worm
      your e-mail trail and viral failure
   defrag your digital e-wag and keep
        your infectication to yourself code zero
     nobody node in big hero loghack
jack into this coaxial back-swill and surge
            encryptically candid click-a-billy
       understanded in an underhood prompt
              not password protectorate
         e-electorate of this one-man
i don't take no dial-up for no answer
  ones and ohs romancer
i don't have time for your download
    packetloss no page found
  into the wild bluescreen yonder
      to ponder
    mail delivery subsystem

Simon Perchik


The Earth dazed from thirst
and streams not yet pouring
—ice, thin and weakened, drips, first
hammers off the smaller stones
to rebuild the pitcher and the slope
—the water will plunge, each Spring
and under my footsteps
again the reeking mud :you will drink
till every creek and my shadow
opens its torn umbrella :the sun
over my shoulder, haggard.
I bring you a flower
as even the seas dive into rock
for water—this bloom
will bleach slowly, like a train
with only one passenger no one sees.
Only you. And the shovelfuls
and when does this ice
weightless all winter, knocking
as if there was still a cup
and you had a tablecloth, expecting me.
All night a loneliness :one seed
and the rain not yet harvested
is allowed to dry—by morning
the color which gives each drop its name
—in this low sky the caves
the damp campfires where rain is shared
and each child learns to wish
—without a leaf or fruit
a milk-white sprout
scraping at my stove
as if the twigs inside
felt the wind again
—all night a dim fire
staring at its rust
at the mist melted into memory
—through such a wedge
even the sun has lost its way
cries out and no morning
to move closer. Or stars.
This egg warmer than so often
through a cloud the breastbone
flickers :the hen
breathing softly over the feathers
—this straw no longer swollen
and all night her chicks in dark corners
while I look for the cry
fighting off the bloodsoaked light
as every rooster
dripping over the empty shells and mornings.
Your heart too
feeds off this floor :each footstep
lower, lower as if around its shadow
fingers, cold, fastened.







H A M I L T O N   S T O N E    E D I T I O N S

p.o. box 43, Maplewood, New Jersey 07040