The Blog

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.

Beautiful Jakob Lays in His Beautiful Bed

Jackson Holbert

Beautiful Jakob
            lays in
his beautiful
            bed. Above

the bed
            beautiful birds.

Jakob won’t
            sleep won’t sleep.

Thinks
            Jesus lord Jesus

those whole
            years I

had all
            the pills

I wanted.
            Thinks

     Jesus lord Jesus
            the trees

in me

The Flowers

Julianne Neely

The flowers were assembled, beginning with their stems.
The flowers feared us, our longings, our appetite.
The flowers were made for the low in the lake.
Flowers whisked with force.
Flowers as cheap poetic device.
The flowers were sentimental.
The flowers saw other flowers and became inconsolable.
They measured their breath, almost audible.

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