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TFD is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker. 



and you say,     Who are you?
and I say,

I don’t.
and we by the ocean    will not swim.
and we be the ocean    rising with the moon,

a natural wonder, we, the moon.

and you say,     Who are you?
and I say, Disappearing, I say,            it doesn’t matter,

a natural wonder, it doesn’t matter, I say,
Rising              with the moon,
and the worst part is                            you’re watching
a retreat, a waning,                              you see

me, natural wonder.

[i am a natural wonder of crumbs in the beard of a third generation immigrant son of a]

I am a natural wonder of crumbs in the beard of a third generation immigrant son of a

*****dentist who failed to tunnel his way out of America with a spoon.
I am a natural wonder of split ends and holes in her shoes my mother born in that

*****decade of parents whose love was fired by bickering and no diploma for you.
I am a natural wonder beneath the live oaks we aspire and fail to eradicate with our

*****limbs the sun they say then my sister brings her child to light like a clue.
I am a natural wonder of waiting for my brother to crumble who like myself has survived

*****himself thus far on a diet of gristle and peeling the skin off his childhood.
I am a natural wonder my friends die in holes a man made of ribbons my country hired

*****he handed them a shovel in the desert he said dig if you want to do good.
I am a natural wonder I watch through a keyhole the woman who forged but won’t patent

*****me extinguish my name on her tongue like a matchstick one lifetime too soon.
I am a natural wonder will you weep when I go down in history my burning engines will

*****you blame me if my plane goes down in the sea in the sun in the dogfight.


To read more poems by Danniel Schoonebeck, visit La Fovea.


For the rest of my life, I bellow the names
of animals I will never see. No brown bear

will rumble into this cell, no wolf. She may
howl beyond the razor wire, but I couldn’t

even name her fur as gray or red or not.
No ocelot, no blue whale. It is a way to pass

the days. In another life, I would have met
a stranger, made him mine by cutting

off a limb for collateral. I would have
loved every bandage lovingly changed.

My mummy-man, I would have called him,
and now add his name to the list.


To read more by Erica Wright, visit her website.


& have been for about three weeks now. I don’t remember ‘yesterday’;
I’m all like scrambled eggs, oh my baby…I had all these FANTASIES:
go missing, go nameless, elated. Slip into a red hold. A strongarm silent
muscle cradle above the crowds, carrying me parallel to the drugged liquid
speed of collective action. Or something. I know, I know, your name
is still so soft, a mohair halo, a dreamword that melts sweetly when thought
into shape. I’m not reeeeally demagnetized with amnesia, not post-context,
not point unplotted. …how I love your legs! But how I love my own, too!,
& my good drugs!, & my fool heart!, & the warm center I wake back
into again & again, with wonder, with natural wonder, a little wonder
beyond the echo of your designation, beyond the ocular field of your
sweaty dress shirts, my dead pet names.


To learn more about Hanna Andrews, visit her blog Hatching Supernovae.


In the bath early on (did I say)
(super) (natural) the water greening
those toes. How can it be.
The year’s supply of toes vs.
the year’s supply of messiahs.
Look up: those flakes of plaster,
sloughing into a smile.

Metamorphosis at recess. Scrunched
bugwise in a wall. Thumbalina’d
in moss upholstery, throned up
in Queen Anne crevices I’d thumbed
between the bricks (I can go anywhere)
(I made myself) (wingless) I plunged
into someone’s cube of milk

so then I swam and swim.
A hotel pool in Anaheim. Who can
deny this wonder. I glitter so hard.
Aquarium framing: toes
appear greening. Ankles then knees.
The glass fogs (the audience)
(gasping) (I glitter) how can it be.


To read more by Caolan Madden, visit her website.


line single-file fourteen Manhattan Islands
arrange a clover of 2,000 school buses
deem an asteroid one and one half a Texas
ten dozen blue whales baleen to rudder
fill the football stadium with seawater
the width of the Adriatic Sea frozen over
that could generate enough electricity to power
eight full-size replicas of the U.S.S. Maine
build a road made of hot dogs the distance
of the moon at its most outlying orbital point
to the bronze statue capping the Capitol
someone perpetually transcribing Sonnets
longhand the length of Ireland’s dental floss
thrown away daily in a gigaton landfill
tipping the scales at seven Great Sphinxes
an explosive force equal to two trillion pounds
of tritrotoluene sunk to the base of Lake Michigan
leaving a crater with an astounding radius
hemispherically similar to a lesser satellite
of the planet that can fit twentysomething suns
the weight of the air that fills your hands
when held out as far as your arms will allow


Justin Runge is a poet, designer, and publisher of Blue Hour Press.


When spring comes, I’ll put
the apartments in which I appear solid
with the new leaf patterns
and for once bare my teeth.
I do what most girls do, give you the softness
of crying, blind attraction, blonde daughters,
habitable burlesque, extraordinary varieties.
Therefore I fear nothing, burnt
into all points of contact. The friction
between thoughts, our own two bodies,
will be taxi drivers, emulating the parade.


James Tadd Adcox co-edits Artifice Magazine and blogs at Authenticity Is No Longer an Option.


Against elegy, totality, perfectability

Only a moving forward

*****************Of disorder.

What trouble for what fuss

All that trying toward what

****************Worth it.

Conditionally this skin

Is feeling just like skin

Hair is breathing

*****************Exactly as promised.

Lifelike in the lamplight

Rounding the curve

*****************Of the easy way out.

Of course in my mirror or my page

*****************I’m the exception.

Naturally redemption

Requires a story be told.

I have no muscles but punctuation.


To learn more about Ashleigh Lambert, click here.


Look at me go
I am a machine made of words
there is a word for what I am
it is hereditary
the basement is on fire
there is a leak in the ceiling
our mouths are stopped up
with rubber stoppers
we are in the laboratory
we are both naked
there are hundreds of us
there is a word for what this is
the word is a statue
the statue is moving
for thousands of years
in a pine forest with black needles
that pop in the fire
the word is productive
the word is an explosion of light
the word is a tailor made gift
the gift will quench your thirst
the gift will put hair on your pelvis
the gift will fill your body with smoke
I want to go home somewhere
a mountain goat bleats
on an unreasonably small precipice
in the snow my hands
are covered in something
with my mouth I can make the sky
turn to ash in your mouth


To learn more about Martin Rock, visit his website.