Pulling the Arms and Legs off Progressive Populists
by Colin James The neglected house was visible only from above. Perfect for a bird
poems by Jade Riordan
Winter Carousel If I crack open an imported coconut & carousel horses stream out like gold embossed milk. If I sip the milk-paint from sunset hued manes, brighten my tuneless tongue. Bleed across the pale green saddle like my sex freed.
poems by John Grey
My Wife and I at the Symphony Five women in the orchestra, she counts them like the conductor counts time. Two violin, one cello, one oboe, one bass clarinet.
The Wind Blows Against Them
by Z. I. Sadeq In the mist of emerald forests, Upon banks of crimson creeks, Beneath limbs of yellow tulipwood, At the foot of smoky peaks,
Anon goes for a walk
by Mario Șerban “to be – a doomful madness with crippling despair. to exist – a professedly everlasting hesitation” When random thoughts remind him how he used to feign kindness, the more ominous his psyche becomes. To be satisfied… what a pity Anon thinks that is. An individual lying to himself unconsciously. Pretending long enough […]
Subjective Mind: Reason or Treason?
by Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu Truth or knowledge? This logical question troubled me for a long time. Let’s say these are my simple conclusions or questions, aligned with philosophy school books. What do I know about truth, either objective or subjective? I might have asked. From which moment on a thought or a perceptive event becomes a […]
poems by Patrick Hurley
[Non-Euclidean Shapes] picture tides and crowded landscapes of isolation the flag of the desultory conquerors has fallen insects of chance and empty space eat away at the remaining fibers the unnamed portion of the night invites all manner of phenomena discarded objects are mapping a surface where no surface was before […]
poems by Michael T. Smith
E T R A H During the moon landing I was on earth But ever asked: how subjective is ‘here?’ At what point does famil’rity have birth? In a dark side of the sun place a hearth.
poems by Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu
The Watchmaker’s Song I. The first dream and the first chant of the young watchmaker It is only this wind’s chant Steeping deep in my ears The enchanting flowers blooming far away The chant of the virgins from the sapphire kingdom, The chant of old clocks with gold wheels,
poems by Holly Day
Arrogance it ought to have altered my existence. I observed him bent above his composition, hours consumed informing minuscule granules of tinted sand of his convoluted plans on the soil, sketching cobalt flowers, scarlet flowers, a single colossal blossom obscuring the dried, packed earth. It was so lovely,