Rainbows in a puddle reflect the triangle over Kenmore.
I took a shower with a boy, we poured
parabens through our threads. In some places
the tap water catches.
All in Poetry
He’s the most amazing &
already they take him, fate
beautys up the mirror, wonders
how ever one gets used to tighter.
In her body—
Each night a secret circus.
The roaring tiger wears her pink tutu,
reaching her arms fiercely out in front of her
revealing her nail polished claws,
doing precisely and perversely
as she was trained.
You’ll never bring yourself to enjoy the actual
sparrow, only its sound, the idea, its chip,
the pluck to stay when friends migrate.
Julie leaves the coast for the lakes
You are tracking a veery
you realize you have always been
after the singing near the excellent sea
The cows got out again, so Dad drives his rusted bronco through the neighbor’s orange groves.
Headlights catch a spotted haunch of meat; his revolver squeezes juice from unripe, yellow flesh.
The speaker tells us
Olive trees look like
they never wanted to
be trees at all.
You do not know the names of the blossoms. Her breath is the smoking radiator overheated car she turns to laugh & neon hits the dye her hair full of colors
POETRYThe Alligator ManJohn DorseyWriter of the Month
a bernese mountain dog collects dust
in the livingroom
as fox news hammers home
the integrity of relics
POETRYDrowned in Numbers: Along the Turkish CoastEmily Strauss
The names of the dead—
absent: 42453
etched on a slab of wood
POETRYThe Prettiest Girl in Moscow, KansasJohn DorseyWriter of the Month
pumps gas with a farmer’s bicep
and sells off brand energy drinks 2 for $4
tallying the state tax
to determine her own worth
Hooded among night drifts as September sweats out summer
Taken to walking, reading
my mind, mine and these sweet streets
strip sunsets, while Sativa burns-- blended in
Diesel--through my nostril, because my inseam keen
POETRYMourners at Calverton National CemeteryDani Dymond
My gaze clung to phantoms:
the mother and son whose worn boots
and thin hats could not hide
the numb mask typical of cemetery patrons
in mid-January.
POETRYThe Loons of Walker LakeJohn DorseyWriter of the Month
off in the distance
abandoned army barracks
give way to wonder
to what this town once was
POETRYCounty Route 705John DorseyWriter of the Month
is full of ghost stories
faded yearbook photos
of dreams that died
on loose gravel