Poetry Drawer: Outlier: Strictures: Market Man: The Daily Catch: Voila & Other Silly Little Miracles: Secrets Never Cease by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Outlier That cold cube of ice against a flurry of fire escape lips, naughty raprap knuckles so far beyond initial infraction, dead batteries for a dyingworld; I am twisted nerve endings like internal ponytails on the pull,and feelings don’t mean … Continue reading

Poetry Drawer: Turning Dials: Commensurate: Bust of Revenge: Quartz Parking Lot, Ontario Street: Getting Loose: Eye Flusher: Over the Hill by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Turning Dials You can bleed out in the heartlandand never find a pulse,turning dials on odd contraptionsthat almost turn themselves,dustbowl feathers for the screeching Thunderbirdof myth, this sorry welling of brackish bail water,silly corn maze competitions where no one ever … Continue reading

Poetry Drawer: Earmarked: Isaac Newton Reinvents the Charcuterie in His Own Cold Meaty Likeness: Every Band Needs a Train Song: I wonder: Kain Crescent Park by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Earmarked It starts like nothing else does –with a simple marker: felt-tipped,Harlem black, that liquorice smell that is supposedto warn of something toxic to the humansurvivals; a simple line drawn down the earlobeso that something has been earmarkedfor something else, … Continue reading

Poetry Drawer: May: Great Blue Heron: When the Water and Sand Dance: Walking the Beach, We Show Our Ignorance about Stars, Constellations: Gazpacho for the Soul: True North by D. R. James

May: Great Blue Heron Look, I want to love this worldas though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to getto be aliveand know it. —Mary Oliver, ‘October’ Busy inhabiting my world—blazing car, radio blather,coffee buzz that wouldn’t last— I … Continue reading

Poetry Drawer: The Frog’s Voices: When I Am Old: Long Lost Memories: Memories of Grief Were Forgotten: What Are Those Strange Images, Which I Think I See? by James G. Piatt

The Frog’s Voices I listen to the voices of night frogs croaking,in the late hours of the night, and try tounderstand the meaning of their messagesechoing off the silver moon: Their hoarse voices curl through my sleepy,mind, sewing strange thoughts … Continue reading