The Blog

My Cup

O.G. Rose

You touch my lips more than my old wife,
but how could I love you? With a red-handle knife
from the shed my Honey painted teal,
should I slice open God,
the natural fabric felt as zephyrs and grass mites,
and kneeling next to my toolbox with the loose latch,
rewire the laws binding Venus and the Higgs boson,

Polymer Hustle

Henry Walters

           sung to the tune of “The Rattlin’ Bog”

Start from the premise that
a sphere of acrylic resin falling
off green baize into a leather pocket

is an unfailing sound.
Begin from there. Well
now questions are there questions.


Jesse Littlejohn

The vows went off.
They really burned it down—those old folks. They really
moved at the fan’s-edge shadow of their feet to god knows what
they felt that rhythm was. The girl herself was quiet, sweet. The bones
sagged like blown wheels in a broth of tripe
and bullion
and the foils round the almonds came undone. One by one


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