..:: CONTENTS ::.. Volume VIII, Issue I ..:: POETRY ::.. Charles Tarlton from The Carmody-Blight Dialogues: 31 32 33 Bruno Neiva les épures mécaniques de cette période Will Burnett [01 Sea / river] j/j hastain from systems of steaming cleave being turned into living seams Glenn R. Frantz Blindfold / Raindrop Thomas Fink from Dusk Bowl Intimacies: 22 23 24 John M. Bennett Blow Away Adam Fagin Linear Daylight J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden The widow and the secret funeral for a wanted corpse Should I not complete my sentence I am the dress my widow is buried in We dote over our duplicity The butcher handles the carcass it carves Eric Weiskott [a full forest solves a full river] [it pummels the surf, it is not meant] [wish for unimportance] [you can't run in dreams, either living] Loretta Clodfelter from Correspondences [In this retelling we ask what role...] [You wouldn't like me when I'm angry] [Been sitting on it so long...] [Too early for a glass of wine...] [The funny thing is I remember it all...] Adam Fieled from Apparition Poems: 217 218 219 RC Miller The Office In My Eye That Photographs My Dream David Harrison Horton from Where Chinese Women Float in Space: [A reckoning,] [Where the carcass is the buzzards gather] [A bullet train and worries] [Boats anchored in the harbor,] [Somewhere there should and must be an epiphone] ..:: PROSE ::.. Len Kuntz Reasons I Should Be Dead Reclamation Cassandra Moss The Hole in the Ground That Did Marianne Villanueva Bread My Dead Chinese Professor ..:: ETC ::.. Contributor's Notes ..:: ARCHIVES ::.. Volume I, Issue I Volume I, Issue II Volume II, Issue I Volume II, Issue II Volume III, Issue I Volume III, Issue II Volume IV, Issue I Volume IV, Issue II Volume V, Issue I Volume V, Issue II Volume VI, Issue I Volume VI, Issue II Volume VII, Issue I
..:: ETC ::.. Contributor's Notes ..:: ARCHIVES ::.. Volume I, Issue I Volume I, Issue II Volume II, Issue I Volume II, Issue II Volume III, Issue I Volume III, Issue II Volume IV, Issue I
The butcher handles the carcass it carves J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden
I feel the beloved dismembering my limbs. I see my arms dragging toward an empty horizon. I feel you exile my fingers. I see my fists as spots in the sun. I feel my shoulders aching for me back.
I feel the beloved dismembering my limbs.
I see my arms dragging toward an empty horizon.
I feel you exile my fingers.
I see my fists as spots in the sun.
I feel my shoulders aching for me back.
// Advance //
