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I want to finger-bang my profile pic.

See-thru has to be all new
about the space between my heart.

But I just want to be invited to things.

When conversations lull, Cecilia volunteers
terrible things about me.

Wafting through
some sort of holiday lamé parade,
I enter the Paris of sleep.

Fellow travelers will deign us
child-like or disgusting,
and we will roll together
with our bodyguard-slash-dance troupe.

There needs to be some sort of Antabuse, but for food.


Dan Magers’s first book of poems, Partyknife, will be released in early 2012 by Birds, LLC.



The stream is ravaged
just as the banks are ravaged.
Bank as in earth formation
or financial institution?
You’re both right.
Disorientation is easy
but only sometimes informative
like watching cable TV:
the dog left locked
in the car in the middle of summer,
the radioactive crab growing not
to giant, pissed off proportions,
just getting sick.
What are you supposed to do?
My brothers are
a string of pearls,
a nest of spiders.
Human beings robbing pharmacies
then going on picnics from hell.


Brad Liening helps edit InDigest Magazine.


Comb it, just off the fueled jetting highway

where the gravel just sits until you

run it over. Then it crackles and browns

into a cloud, and the picnic is ruined!

The wonder lies in how both explanations

are wacke and that one doesn’t feel responsible

for either, but if one were anything else but

human, there would be no distinction, but

then again there may be no problem at all

if one were not human. Usefulness, show

the way with your flare guns and booby tassels,

show me your footwork and how to slick

back my hair like you. What you dip yr comb in,

the special ordered jelly made from on high,

Certified Trademarked Natural Wonder,

a company which knows its way around.

And what is the reason to sit next to anything?


Drew Scott Swenhaugen lives in Portland, Ore. He co-edits Poor Claudia and co-curates the Bad Blood Reading Series.

I A M A N A T U R A L B L U N D E R (evaporite)

She said I knew we weren’t careful
enough that night. That’s the final

form of wanting. On the way to her
mother before us: two mesas. 412, the

road to Dodge City, west: the sun in
the rearview the first hundred miles,

the red clay of the Cimarron behind
selenite. Or else, if by six he meant

six, breakfast in Woodward, the sun
breaking as we drove between them.

Young, I knew want as she did: a trail
up past the plateau’s edge that I never

climbed, unlike my brothers. I said I
won’t go ’til there is someone to come

down, someone to push aside the order
of things.


Each night I go to bed, one sleep atop
another. The days pass, the days pass,

a stack of nights like a book. Every
dress hung over my desk-chair, and

I, the ever-present, my hand beneath
what falls before me. Not unlike the

mesa, I am not, without what I shed,
myself. A curious thing, and a wonder:

Who are you, brother, now you come
down from the hill? That rock in your

hand: temper me like it: from above:
remove: I found the desert rose in

clusters under the wheels here. Yours
is clear. Put it to the car window:

another set of lines. Now put your
eye to it: another platform in a city

somewhere else.


Michael Lala curates the Fireside Follies series in Brooklyn and writes on Katelan Foisy.


Things fall, ebb
descend or dissipate
The land ends where the glass web
Rises like a prayer
And what is
Is repeated on the balcony, the stairs, in gleaming cars
In the spaces between windows
We hang mirrors
We smile, shift our weight and lift our shirts
We drift between two parallel realities
In the morning dressing for the evening
Walking with our teeth out
Look at us
Delicately upright
Our organs exposed
Our throats like another face
We use the bed
Instead of sleeping in it
We tell each other, “When I die I don’t care
What happens to my body”
As though we were boats of air
Until little by little
We are encroached upon by shadows
The echoing voices of ominous
Upper equipment
Until our responsibilities have been reduced
Or moderated like an invalid’s
We sit upright inside
The great room full of wind
Watching the birds and ants and golden bees
Swarming right up to the sleeve of death
It is natural to love what is impossible
It is natural to say what is and mean
What is impossible
It is natural to want to call
The air
Between your fingers nothing
It is a wonder that we ever see
The pattern is what is assembled
When you aren’t paying attention
And it is still called inconsistency
Even if it happens constantly


Marshall Walker Lee lives in Oregon. His favorite tree is the mighty American Paper Birch. (He also co-edits Poor Claudia.)


Lately, he says you might be dying. That you do it like you did astronomy under the blankets. Sip some tea or spill it. Get closer to him he says. He says, will the world care if you never glitter? You’ve lost so many gloves. You’ve laid behind a tree, you’ve distressed over gauntlets of altars of chirping inside the wombspell. You’ve seen the underworld and thought it grand if not a bit ruddy. You’ve been religious and non-religious and understood the innerworkings of crystals in a lover’s ear. You’ve been no child but you’ve been no child but you’ve been a naked thing because you shower without clothes. If you start the breeze, if you breathe painless and clear, if your uppermost mind becomes a sand-abandoned dawn, if for a moment you draw a blank with a pencil and then drive it through your ear. Lately, you think you might be dying and you idealize over bras thinking lacier ones will somehow save your life.


What will hurt you: a marsh no longer a marsh a memory which forged an entire wingspan to strut forth on the biplane and so you saw it—a clear picture of yourself at middle age or dried out arroyos, a brilliant noise of dancing in the Michael Jackson phase of your luminous little childhood sequestered. It did fester, those stupid dreams. Now your loans are deferred. Your throat quite possessive of just the right ooooh’s and aaaaah’s. Your supernatural cloak of perfect hair said you didn’t want revenge. You said it yourself: I don’t seek revenge. Little Jenny, how you lie.  How transparent your jellyfish egg. Your nature is hushed, your athletic pencil in the passive eclipse, an eclipse drawn to scale in the smart of your life. You too housed revenge with hospitality and gave it slippers. Nothing shown except the tremor of an archer’s quiver. Your fatigue conveyed in a mangrove, a forest that refused to move, until S. looked away. My revenge a celluloid photograph frequenting the most desperate of performances—the ache reserved for me alone.


Christie Ann Reynolds is the author of Revenge Poems (SUPERMACHINE, 2010) and co-curator of the Stain of Poetry Reading Series.


I think my heart beats too fast now
post Olympics, pre the swooping
arrival of zephyrs, feeling around for
the gap from which my French
must be spilling. I can barely speak
to my new brother. It’s one week
since they turned on my neighbor’s
prosthetic hearing and what is biggest
is how replete the world must be with
invisible birds and how telephones
have been divested of actual zephyrs.
I don’t get it: If everything is expanding
is my body expanding? Is the atmosphere?
Are the animals’ voices?  Here on the island
of my sister’s wedding everyone speaks
at once. Palms flap like magazine covers.
Grass gets mown by rescuable donkeys.
I had been trapped in the tiny airport for
three days before my escape draped in
women’s robes, my tallest daughter walking
beside me to make my height less conspicuous.
A permanent draft passes between us.
Her voice sounds the most like birds.


Graeme Bezanson is an Editor-in-Chief at Coldfront and blogs at ohheyhowseverybody.


my mountain runs over your hill
erupting our double-edge sword
into a tomb of disintegrating snow
you’re my hero even if you don’t
think so, or how with bits of fog
particulating into ash, a green tree
trunk emerges with a rolling thunder
my role in thunder is to act as rain
cloud I’m falling a bit too hard
though like geodes coming
down from the sky
inside also crystal suicide
your hill pushes through with an
errant theater, a bobcat straddles
a hyperbolic rock on the edge
of the bluff, layers beneath
are little histories made into one
big natural applause


Paige Taggart is a poet and jewelry-maker. To learn more, visit her website mactaggart jewelry.


Pragmatics attempt a lead/follow dynamic
My senses heightened
Open mouth chewing
Conversations about the market
That inflection of sincerity
Perpetual pubescence I suppose is what people might think
Dressed in a bright purple scarf
They wouldn’t be wrong
I want to be able to stop dreaming
I want to be able to take as long as it takes
Follow some handsome man to Virginia simply because he asks


To learn more about Jackie Clark, visit her blog No Help for That.


not like before the weeds are pulled, there
among other weeds, there along the lines
of bird hops or there goes another
whanger. I am wondering more than impossibly
wondering, more than tooting, yonder
yonder, I won’t go nowhere. I won’t leave
nowhere. I won’t rush away there is to see.


To learn more about Jordan Stempleman, visit his website.