The Blog

I-90 Mutilated Acres

Adam Fell

Somewhere near Poynette
our waxwings fail /

Like snow setting
on youthless kites /

thrushed to less /
godwit brimming /

We sing / we sever / we save /

The mute engineering
of our own pried open country

gives our green abundance

away / in gasps / Our hush
the husk of all good intentions /

Conchy’s boy

Lorenzo Javier Diaz-Cruz


the July 26th movement would like to take credit on my behalf, but it is not true
I am Conchy’s boy. The Guanahatabeys, Taino and Siboney culture would like to take credit on my behalf, after all, they give me my wide nose, brown dick, and short brawny stature, but it is not the whole truth, I am Conchy’s boy. The streets of Pinar del Rio which bore me, nurtured me in the villages of Briones Montoto, Cayo Conuco, La Coloma, they would like to say, I was born like the white-faced whistling duck—ass first, already knowing how to whistle, but it is not true, I was born head first and I could not whistle until I was 3.

Sunset on 14th Street

Alex Dimitrov

I don’t want to sound unreasonable
but I need to be in love immediately.
I can’t watch this sunset
on 14th Street by myself.
Everyone is walking fast
right after therapy, texting back
their lovers orange hearts
and unicorns—it’s insane to me.
They’re missing this free sunset
willingly! Or even worse
they’re going home to cook
and read this sad poem online.
Let me tell you something,
people have quit smoking.


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