Category / Issue #28 October 2012

October, 2012 – featuring Daniel Bosch, Michael Earl Craig, Angie Estes, Kathleen Flenniken, Jeff Friedman, Reginald Gibbons, Fady Joudah, Dzvinia Orlowsky, Tom Sleigh, Daniel Tobin, and Dean Young. Featured Selection by Molly Lou Freeman.

“Bunch of Asparagus” and …

                Edouard Manet, oil on two canvases, 1880     1 Bundle on a wet bed of greens or chives on a marble table in the kitchen of the Hotel Intercontinental   Sheaf bound

Idea for a Screenplay *

A man sits on his porch and reads aloud to the yard, to some plants and to some birds, his feelings of paranoia, anger and jealousy beginning to lift. One small bird in particular hops back and forth excitedly to

Hail to Thee,

I write, my wrist nodding as it does when chopping leeks and garlic with a knife, then stirring the soup, whose project—with farro, ceci, and nettles—is to present life             as it has been forgotten. Sit a while and wrest

I Dreamed of Obama on the Nigh…

He stirred the coals of my dwindling campfire. We were alone. Blue tendrils of smoke punctuated the Mesozoic haze like a scene from Jonny Quest. Up and down the basin Americans smoldered. The tent flap behind us fell open meaningfully

The Killing

While Abraham binds his son’s hands, loads sticks on his chest, while he raises his knife skyward and looks to the heavens, while Isaac, obedient to his father, lies still on the jury-rigged altar, watching the knife as if the


I remember that our hell-hot pear tree, so southerly, held with a negative theology—took up that logic, so logy with summer Logos that it bore small fruit that refused to ripen; if plucked from those green anti- fundamentalist branches it

Pathetic Fallacy

Jog through this suburb at a blue hour when bliss blows over dewy lawns and neighbors walk suspicious dogs inhaling trunks of oaks and birches like a posse of pet detectives, and roused yet cautious, a first mourning dove sings.


The blind hobo who returned or it seemed that he had followed me before had carious teeth and his lips were like those of stillbirths in Fallujah   Cyclops aren’t a fable some nascent human genome could have pulled and

Wooden Boards

My father carefully rolls his pant leg up, places his leg between two wide boards. He tells my mother to jump hard on it. Crippled, he won’t be drafted. They agree. Earlier, he had considered hiding under the living room’s


In those days, so many stairways were said to lead to happiness, mainly of a sexual kind—and as I climbed those stairs, I could hear my name being called from the top, as I so often did back then—and the

Ode to the Google Maps Man

Gold-suited spaceman, terranaut, Digital archon ever-descending, Eyeless, every-eyed,   You carry me with you Down from your ether-clouded reaches To wherever I am not,   Sao Paulo or Lordes, Seething metropolis, graffiti-blazoned In the high, enduring sun,   The same

Why I Haven’t “Outgrown Su…

I still love the sound of breaking, the tearing of the page, fruit that splits when it’s ripe. Not sticks and string or a 30-page instruction manual when I need a kite, when I need a dragon in the sky.


By way of introduction to this month’s collaborative “Featured Selection,” per usual first a brief introductory essay by the poet, followed by the work itself, and some biographical material.     Inner Geography on landscape, poetics and horsemanship A river