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from WAR OF THE FOXES | Richard Siken

The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination.
All night the wind blows through the trees. It makes a sound.
The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter paints more rings on his glasses. Everything is a target, says the hunter. No matter where you look. The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.

THE KENNETH ARNOLD UFO SIGHTING | Curtis Rogers

The state I’m in,
I’m no good to my medication.
Suspended in perma-bobble
on the dashboard, traditional Hawaiian garb.
I closely brush with a fate I Googled. Nine
stringy pie plates skipping on possible’s
lake. Something that doesn’t sit right
is my M.O. I stir my drink & the ice wags
loyally. This isn’t a franchise of the stress
hormone cortisol. It’s a promise Ferris
wheeled by social media. Not going anywhere
you couldn’t guess, the fear of. I’m stuck
in the synapse of my ways, like a crowd-lancing
glimpse. The shutting-off TV folds flash
like a napkin in its lap. Meditative breath spread-
eagled into lungs. Sometimes, doing good by
yourself entails a bum deal. A shoal of possible
side effects, show of hands from showstoppers.
My pharmacist sends me a message, “what’s up,”
on Facebook. I rest my elbows on a burning table.
Stir drinks a stone skips across. Gone unexplainable
somewhere in an hourly luxury sedan, I kiss an arm
with a mean right hook. I learn the hard way
if at all possible. You can’t divine purpose
from a commercial-broken surface, but you can
steal away to where hibiscus repeats. When I wrote
sunset I meant to write subset. I’m being impolite, but
I’m alone. My feet are up on the table up in flames.
The excited membrane leaks with spray tan. & I have
my doubts about what happens in this shirt’s cotton.
Breadcrumbs like pageant contestants line behind
a curtain. Hearing my name in the crowd I don’t turn.

A HISTORY OF MANIC DEPRESSION | Raul Alvarez

For God so loved the world he drove it straight into a brick wall, and the world folded around him, and the world removed thirty percent of the flesh from his face, and the world broke three of his ribs, and the world was on fire, and the world was pried open by a host of angels, and the world was sprayed with chemicals and water, and the world was placed on the back of a large tow truck, and the world was evaluated by an insurance agent, and the world was declared a total loss, and the world was replaced with a new world.

ALPHABET OF CONDITIONS | Susan Grimm

In the morning I know what I want and how
to make it. All night with the door shut heating
up in the furnace of sleep watching yourself
fool yourself fool yourself. Color this hinky.
Color this out of control. And in the morning
I know what I want. There’s the hourglass,
me tensed on the bottom, the seconds sifting
down but no one to make cake. Each minute
dense as a clay brick batting down into our broken
field running. So in the night when I lie on the bed
like a figure or a number or a sign when I lie
on the bed like a sigil or a spill of some dark
dark liquid and I move my arm or cock
my leg or curl and the lights dim inside. Draw
the coverlet over what flashes on the sheets.
Hands at prayer. Fetal. Splayed. Alphabet
of conditions. Act 22,000. Scene 4. Impervious
dream me and crows carrying night. Pale busboy
forearms and cotton puffs crammed in a box. Pots
stirred in the graveyard and the dead returned
to their fleeced out homes. Dark feathers
settling around the windows, keyholes, doors.

from STONES SPLIT ME WHAT I HAD | Carrie Lorig & Russ Sara Woods

crownfossil dreamt and in our arms, how do you pronounce dead? how do you eat potato bones? if i spoke string, how much of it would have to be created? laughfossils, ponydrone, give me the least of you. the very least of you. but just enough for fevers. but just enough for a poem. but just enough for this bag of old magnets. their tenderness is salt and flat and dragging us softly against the figure of a storm. this magazine is fine. greetings from the reach house. my name is silvia. i’ll be armed up and peel hearted, fossilcrying. my name is silvia. i’ll be taking your winter mind inside for safekeeping. portrait, you half game of a bird. portrait, you air leash. portrait, my name is silvia. every last boiled rip in the drawer or paisley breakers cracking in the wet surf, grapesleeper. do you have peas and slap eyes down on the hopelessly blessed lox of me? did you put paste mermaids on the hull of the seed? i would’ve. i would’ve taken them to the center of a pear’s wrist with me. to the place where you lay on your back and point. wouldn’t the cream shake us in its beak? wouldn’t the wisdom outside be full of small crushed bones? let’s not forget that if one bulb pops then the muscle goes limp. these shoots are barely here. these shoots are loose crowns protecting your head. umbrellas in other parts of the world flip over the sand. i thought the ground had disappeared. so much water surrounds my dreams about pavement skeletons. so much wind gets eaten or taken apart and left to die in the mailbox. where are you? you always feel like a shorn piece of flower in a cup to me. i don’t know what that means except that i can’t call you from the jut of this cliff softener.

CHILD ON A PLANE | Nils Michals

Child on a plane: is this when we grow smaller? Man: in how many ways must I grow bigger? Woman: there’s an oak box, Cromwell’s head inside. Child: where do the people in the radio sleep at night? Man: because there are certain parts of my body that will grow no larger. Woman: interred, secret location, nineteen sixty, authenticity unconfirmed. Child: are we there yet? Man: where? Woman: the head at breakfast amid some white rolls and butter so that Maria Edgeworth, eighteen twenty-two, would note: his head—not his picture—nothing of stone or marble or plaster of Paris, but his real head. Child: why is the sky blue? Man: because it is an emptiness with a line through it. Woman: all things fall, all men fall some, as in some remarkable effects of a storm of great thunder and lightning, sixteen eighty-five, one being the pole splintered and brought to earth. Woman: the head tucked in the red coat of a guard, body’s whereabouts unknown. Woman: once separated from the body by eight blows, the head impaled, risen on a spike over the London skyline. Woman: the whole corpse disinterred, death again and again and again through the streets, hanged at Tyburn, thirty January, sixteen sixty-one. Woman: when a body is more than a body it is hidden in the wall of the middle aisle of the Henry VII Lady Chapel. Child: are we there yet? Man: zzzzz. Woman: a funeral procession in imperial purple, and yes my love, we are here. Woman: sixteen fifty-eight, septicaemia. Child: what does it mean to die? Woman: there’s a man who made himself king.

IN A MOST PECULIAR WAY | Chris Emslie

I began wanting to be an astronaut
but the world said There is already

a monopoly on satellites. World,
you have your own explorations to

commit to. Now like a vacated sofa
holding human shape you are an

oddity of space. This is my counsel:
in the closing days no cloud will take

a tether. If the seas cough up their
silver we can dance on a beachhead

shod in scales. The astronauts return
as diving bells, beaten stellar in the

absence of a breeze. Turn the radio
off. The sky got sick waiting for you.

EVE | Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

I awake the first daughter, the first mother. I am
nobody’s, I belong to the man behind the tree

picking yellow flowers. We don’t have a word
for flowers yet. We don’t have a word for tree.

I don’t know I am a daughter or a mother
only know this once two warring tribes come

headlong from my body. We invent a word
for pain. I dream the word murder before

it happens. This is what it looks like: at daybreak,
two elephants bathe each other at the mouth

of the river. They cascade water until the sun goes
down, and one elephant sinks deep into the sand

until he can no longer be seen. The lone elephant
wails and splashes, looking for the missing

elephant until again it’s daybreak.

CLEAR NIGHT | Charles Wright

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

from WAR OF THE FOXES | Richard Siken

The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination.
All night the wind blows through the trees. It makes a sound.
The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter paints more rings on his glasses. Everything is a target, says the hunter. No matter where you look. The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.

THE KENNETH ARNOLD UFO SIGHTING | Curtis Rogers

The state I’m in,
I’m no good to my medication.
Suspended in perma-bobble
on the dashboard, traditional Hawaiian garb.
I closely brush with a fate I Googled. Nine
stringy pie plates skipping on possible’s
lake. Something that doesn’t sit right
is my M.O. I stir my drink & the ice wags
loyally. This isn’t a franchise of the stress
hormone cortisol. It’s a promise Ferris
wheeled by social media. Not going anywhere
you couldn’t guess, the fear of. I’m stuck
in the synapse of my ways, like a crowd-lancing
glimpse. The shutting-off TV folds flash
like a napkin in its lap. Meditative breath spread-
eagled into lungs. Sometimes, doing good by
yourself entails a bum deal. A shoal of possible
side effects, show of hands from showstoppers.
My pharmacist sends me a message, “what’s up,”
on Facebook. I rest my elbows on a burning table.
Stir drinks a stone skips across. Gone unexplainable
somewhere in an hourly luxury sedan, I kiss an arm
with a mean right hook. I learn the hard way
if at all possible. You can’t divine purpose
from a commercial-broken surface, but you can
steal away to where hibiscus repeats. When I wrote
sunset I meant to write subset. I’m being impolite, but
I’m alone. My feet are up on the table up in flames.
The excited membrane leaks with spray tan. & I have
my doubts about what happens in this shirt’s cotton.
Breadcrumbs like pageant contestants line behind
a curtain. Hearing my name in the crowd I don’t turn.

A HISTORY OF MANIC DEPRESSION | Raul Alvarez

For God so loved the world he drove it straight into a brick wall, and the world folded around him, and the world removed thirty percent of the flesh from his face, and the world broke three of his ribs, and the world was on fire, and the world was pried open by a host of angels, and the world was sprayed with chemicals and water, and the world was placed on the back of a large tow truck, and the world was evaluated by an insurance agent, and the world was declared a total loss, and the world was replaced with a new world.

ALPHABET OF CONDITIONS | Susan Grimm

In the morning I know what I want and how
to make it. All night with the door shut heating
up in the furnace of sleep watching yourself
fool yourself fool yourself. Color this hinky.
Color this out of control. And in the morning
I know what I want. There’s the hourglass,
me tensed on the bottom, the seconds sifting
down but no one to make cake. Each minute
dense as a clay brick batting down into our broken
field running. So in the night when I lie on the bed
like a figure or a number or a sign when I lie
on the bed like a sigil or a spill of some dark
dark liquid and I move my arm or cock
my leg or curl and the lights dim inside. Draw
the coverlet over what flashes on the sheets.
Hands at prayer. Fetal. Splayed. Alphabet
of conditions. Act 22,000. Scene 4. Impervious
dream me and crows carrying night. Pale busboy
forearms and cotton puffs crammed in a box. Pots
stirred in the graveyard and the dead returned
to their fleeced out homes. Dark feathers
settling around the windows, keyholes, doors.

from STONES SPLIT ME WHAT I HAD | Carrie Lorig & Russ Sara Woods

crownfossil dreamt and in our arms, how do you pronounce dead? how do you eat potato bones? if i spoke string, how much of it would have to be created? laughfossils, ponydrone, give me the least of you. the very least of you. but just enough for fevers. but just enough for a poem. but just enough for this bag of old magnets. their tenderness is salt and flat and dragging us softly against the figure of a storm. this magazine is fine. greetings from the reach house. my name is silvia. i’ll be armed up and peel hearted, fossilcrying. my name is silvia. i’ll be taking your winter mind inside for safekeeping. portrait, you half game of a bird. portrait, you air leash. portrait, my name is silvia. every last boiled rip in the drawer or paisley breakers cracking in the wet surf, grapesleeper. do you have peas and slap eyes down on the hopelessly blessed lox of me? did you put paste mermaids on the hull of the seed? i would’ve. i would’ve taken them to the center of a pear’s wrist with me. to the place where you lay on your back and point. wouldn’t the cream shake us in its beak? wouldn’t the wisdom outside be full of small crushed bones? let’s not forget that if one bulb pops then the muscle goes limp. these shoots are barely here. these shoots are loose crowns protecting your head. umbrellas in other parts of the world flip over the sand. i thought the ground had disappeared. so much water surrounds my dreams about pavement skeletons. so much wind gets eaten or taken apart and left to die in the mailbox. where are you? you always feel like a shorn piece of flower in a cup to me. i don’t know what that means except that i can’t call you from the jut of this cliff softener.

CHILD ON A PLANE | Nils Michals

Child on a plane: is this when we grow smaller? Man: in how many ways must I grow bigger? Woman: there’s an oak box, Cromwell’s head inside. Child: where do the people in the radio sleep at night? Man: because there are certain parts of my body that will grow no larger. Woman: interred, secret location, nineteen sixty, authenticity unconfirmed. Child: are we there yet? Man: where? Woman: the head at breakfast amid some white rolls and butter so that Maria Edgeworth, eighteen twenty-two, would note: his head—not his picture—nothing of stone or marble or plaster of Paris, but his real head. Child: why is the sky blue? Man: because it is an emptiness with a line through it. Woman: all things fall, all men fall some, as in some remarkable effects of a storm of great thunder and lightning, sixteen eighty-five, one being the pole splintered and brought to earth. Woman: the head tucked in the red coat of a guard, body’s whereabouts unknown. Woman: once separated from the body by eight blows, the head impaled, risen on a spike over the London skyline. Woman: the whole corpse disinterred, death again and again and again through the streets, hanged at Tyburn, thirty January, sixteen sixty-one. Woman: when a body is more than a body it is hidden in the wall of the middle aisle of the Henry VII Lady Chapel. Child: are we there yet? Man: zzzzz. Woman: a funeral procession in imperial purple, and yes my love, we are here. Woman: sixteen fifty-eight, septicaemia. Child: what does it mean to die? Woman: there’s a man who made himself king.

IN A MOST PECULIAR WAY | Chris Emslie

I began wanting to be an astronaut
but the world said There is already

a monopoly on satellites. World,
you have your own explorations to

commit to. Now like a vacated sofa
holding human shape you are an

oddity of space. This is my counsel:
in the closing days no cloud will take

a tether. If the seas cough up their
silver we can dance on a beachhead

shod in scales. The astronauts return
as diving bells, beaten stellar in the

absence of a breeze. Turn the radio
off. The sky got sick waiting for you.

EVE | Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

I awake the first daughter, the first mother. I am
nobody’s, I belong to the man behind the tree

picking yellow flowers. We don’t have a word
for flowers yet. We don’t have a word for tree.

I don’t know I am a daughter or a mother
only know this once two warring tribes come

headlong from my body. We invent a word
for pain. I dream the word murder before

it happens. This is what it looks like: at daybreak,
two elephants bathe each other at the mouth

of the river. They cascade water until the sun goes
down, and one elephant sinks deep into the sand

until he can no longer be seen. The lone elephant
wails and splashes, looking for the missing

elephant until again it’s daybreak.

CLEAR NIGHT | Charles Wright

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

from WAR OF THE FOXES | Richard Siken
THE KENNETH ARNOLD UFO SIGHTING | Curtis Rogers
ON A ROCK DESCRIBING WATER | Travis-David Beckett
A HISTORY OF MANIC DEPRESSION | Raul Alvarez
ALPHABET OF CONDITIONS | Susan Grimm
from STONES SPLIT ME WHAT I HAD | Carrie Lorig & Russ Sara Woods
CHILD ON A PLANE | Nils Michals
IN A MOST PECULIAR WAY | Chris Emslie
EVE | Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
CLEAR NIGHT | Charles Wright

About:

I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar. And if some aficionado of my mess says
"That's not like Frank!," all to the good! I don't wear brown and grey suits all the
time, do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.
— Frank O'Hara


I am Alisha Bruton. You can shout out or ask questions or just straight up say HULLO at AlishaBruton@gmail.com.

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