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Showing posts from October, 2020

Mike James

Ted Berrigan’s Sonnet I, Erased

sleeping hands which play for warmth

still
among
sleeping fragments



Ted Berrigan’s Sonnet II, Erased
              hello
     books


     the day is bright  feminine          the sun      up


                          late to work                                         I should know better

Mike James makes his home outside Nashville, Tennessee and has published widely. His many poetry collections include: Red Dirt Souvenir Shop (Analog Submissions), Journeyman’s Suitcase (Luchador), Parades (Alien Buddha), Jumping Drawbridges in Technicolor (Blue Horse), First-Hand Accounts from Made-Up Places (Stubborn Mule), Crows in the Jukebox (Bottom Dog), My Favorite Houseguest (FutureCycle), and Peddler’s Blues (Main Street Rag.) He served as an associate editor of The Kentucky Review and currently serves as an associate editor of Unbroken

Gale Acuff

Discovered
I'm carving my initials on a tree with a pocketknife my father gave me yesterday. My first tool. My first weapon. I'm leaving a hint of who I am here by force. I'm not killing the tree but what was that cry I just heard? Probably just a bird but it's a new one on me. Crow? Pigeon? No and no. GA--that's me, or part. I know who I am but if someone comes through these woods and doesn't know me then he won't know I cut these clues. But he'll know why, I suspect, and that's enough: as if I've put my mark on Nature--my copy -right. Yes (mean my initials), I own all you survey. Not just this one tree but all its brothers and, by extension, the earth and sky, bushes and briars and flowers, birds and squirrels and stray cats and dogs and whatever other creatures wander through, including the character who pauses here and finds the owner of this forest. Not that he would know where to look. Chances are he won't stop here at all but at some strange tree. If I'm…

Sarah Sarai

The Antichrist's Mad Skills
     on The Omen

Don’t lie to your wife, Gregory Peck. That unholy son is a doozey.
Hormones are scheming delivery mechanisms of the Devil and yet Lee Remick is delivered.
To England!
Remind me, has the cake been served? Nanny ties her noose for you! Damien appears morally ambiguous.
Honors the child-mother bond of comfort and hate, tricycling Mom to hospital.
Photos. Mystery mark of death. You got it, you goner.
Nanny murders. Peck battles. There is no happy ending unless you favor fear, as I do.
That red-eyed coot keeps me company most nights.

Sarah Sarai’s poems are in DMQ ReviewMom Egg, Zocalo Public SquareThe Southampton Review and many other journals. Her second full-length collection, That Strapless Bra in Heaven, was published by Kelsay Books. She doesn’t think clouds are lonely.