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Jessica O. Marsh, Four Poems


lentil chat bath teakettle diva
balcony feel chin glass stairwell
ornament drug denim neon low heel
mattress file light gadget shadow
parcel zombie lychee mirror hoodie
cord florist pattern torso puzzle

A cache A carton A cat A chart A chasm

There is a lake in the hollow
A jury stretches for the jingle

There is icing on the lawn there is
Dry ice in the metronome laden with fading

No crime No letter No name

All pistil All pylon All plinth All pauses

The highway’s an outfit
The car is a shell

There is a pin in the ragweed
There is a mirror in the gender

A pattern A shadow A gadget A spell


Pushed past the surface matrix
Erred into shameless representations

Never foregoing value to any daydream
Who wants love?

This is my bier this is my pliers
This is my moonbeam this is my sunbeam

Horses horses shoddy allegiance discord reveling
So who wants love?

Fraught gave me an ear ring
grew in a fancy silver shiverings

It’s raining change where is my goblet
Said one appraising resource tapped the blessing.

Who wants love?
Known in this stream of grieving as blueprints tatters now strained

Though deviation’s a seductress
What felled to earth estranged it kismet

Your mine woof toys apart your mine warp
So who wants love?

Lent like steel into the current moment
Sensible ripples who goes denying blissed out

Mouth to mouth my mouth felt difference sowing
This is the rift context the bowing huntress.

Paused fretwork of the day dream
Slips slack like shadows of the lattice tracery

A charm always alarming with proof prodigal
Who wants love?



Dream prow of scribbles. A pillow of syllables scrabble on a grassy green a letter’s letters written round in chalk. On pieces of broken rock I turned round and round to read. Here and then here and always here below the hand XXX a series of Christograms. Three crows with humanoid guffaws stumble over their own slipstreams.

Deictic rain near and far tapping a landscape S.O.S. dampen all leaders, all types of abode. One heavy interior bound to the animal curled in the night. Each to each continuing air gasped well is well goodnight, no one is sleeping. What implied gold’s ever breeding.

Wide planks take you home and a fire’s recall. A garden’s common tragedy of silently meeting their needs. To what do you listen? She thought she needed one thing, but the sky was so complicated. Slips off the clasp, almost a flame, we wear the jewelry of ash, eat fruit from the weeds.

The day shimmers so close, so whole, it is faced. Then you know what fences were keeping the hush of the sedulous sounds of escape, the work of beginning as-if. What won’t be unwound? Past the core, the whole branch reaches into the ground.



For Ana Mendieta

I breaking apart on the water and my clotted petals sinking
I thawing frozen forest on the wild, diurnal tongue
I thinning of the sun into this night’s clearing

I unbinding my hair it is falling and falling
I pixelating the image your possession
I scattering all claims made or lost

I adjourning the jury
I weakening intensity
I severing the cord

There is a fire near the water. There is a body in the flame.
There is a flower in the weeds. I have felt myself repeated.

When I heard the idea in the glance
I needed easing
When I found the dummy, when I rebuilt the dummy
When the dummy began seeming beautiful
I needed easing
Why because imagining’s ease directed.
Why—if we live past our mistakes.

What you said, now is a river I break
____in like
What you said, is not approaching stillness
____never is
I, mimicking, glean from your voice
____this husk:
I see dirt, water, macerated petals
____pulling apart
Into what
Into what thing, into what one thing
That would be easy to understand
and to love?

It’s easy to forget why
It’s easy to forget to forgive the forgetting
It’s not easy to walk to the water’s edge
What did I say to myself there?

I, leaning down, hair falling and falling
touched that self and it stopped recording—

The pressure falls apart into rain
Into that one name
Into this whole scene, green afternoon
It is plucked
It is something falling and falling
It is tapping the river together
Pocking the dust at the stairs
Sorting the grasses, stirring the leaves

It was falling apart. Now it’s here.


Jessica O. Marsh lives in the Hudson Valley. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Fanzine, Flying Object Press (broadside), Lana Turner, Patient Presses (chapbook), Prelude, and Vinyl Poetry.

Yaxkin Melchy, Three Poems

Translated by Marcelo Hernandez Castillo.







Yaxkin Melchy is the author of Desde el Nuevo Mundo (2006-2016) which gathers his previous collections published in Mexico titled Ciudades electrodomésticas, Los poemas que vi por un telescopio, El Sol Verde, Los planetas, El Cinturon de Kuiper and Safari Turquesa. He founded the online journal “La red de los poetas salvajes,” and is the editor of the presses “” and “” which create hand crafted artisanal books. In 2009 he was recognized with the “Elías Nandino” National Prize for Young Poets.

Marcelo Hernandez Castillo was born in Zacatecas, Mexico, and crossed the border through Tijuana at the age of five with his family. He is a Canto Mundo fellow and the first undocumented student to graduate from the University of Michigan’s MFA program. He teaches summers as the resident artist at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in Florida. He was a finalist for the New England Review Emerging Writer Award and his manuscript was a finalist for the Alice James Book Prize and the National Poetry Series. His work has been adapted into opera through collaboration with the composer Reinaldo Moya. His poems and essays can be found in Indiana Review, New England Review, The Paris American, Gulf Coast and Southern Humanities Review among others. He helped initiate the Undocupoets campaign which successfully eliminated citizenship requirements from all major first poetry book prizes in the country.

Julie Ragland, “Mother of Dragons”

Julie Ragland has been dabbling in art her whole life, and works mostly in collage and mixed media with found or recycled objects. Her art explores the interaction between masculine and feminine elements and often features female figures, images of nature, religious iconography, and fantastical aspects. She lives in Tucson, Arizona with her husband, son, and a legion of small animals.

“Mother of Dragons” is part of a series of 12 pieces based on a recycled 2008 Erté wall calendar. All of the pieces feature the original Erté images, mostly of feminine figures with large headdresses and images of nature, and often different faces added. This particular piece is based on an Erté fashion print, and is inspired by the fictional character Daenerys Targaryen from the Game of Thrones series. Who doesn’t want to have a cadre of dragons to call upon to help conquer empires?

Sally Roundhouse, Poem



Well / hel / lo / ro / de / o, / much / caut / er / ized / long / as / king / knee / cap / done / un / blessed / the / in / dus / tri / al / thumb. / Them / new / li / po / suc / tion. / You / of / fered / as / ton / ished / eu / cha / rist / and / cried / likes / to / yell / at / kids / af / ter / reach / ing / each / span / gled / street / light. / Of / course / the / per / son / I’m / dy / ing / in / smo / thered / their / night / in / gale / be / tween / i / rons / of / white / fuc / king. / It / was / just / one / love / ly. /


Sweet / ca / li / che, / mean / whi / le, / un / der / moun / tains / shuf / fles, / won / dered / of / wea / ther, / the / ti / dy / horse. / I / lurk / sweet / o / va / ry / as / mol / e / cules, / what. / Cric / ket / this / bone / let, / what. / Mem / o / ry / gets / jun / ky / in / au / tumn, / what. / Whis / tle / or / chids, / ev / er / y / one, / ev / er / y / one, / what. /


You / lung / less / pet / of / my / thighs, / name / one / dy / ing / war / bl / er. / The / jun / ky / sun / out / glowed / the / o / cean / as / her / mi / graine / whis / tled / ec / sta / tic / al / ly. / I / de / si / re / a / fea / ther / un / der / us. / Birds / are / sing / ing. / The / brick / leaved / dawn / moons / af / ter / ev / er / greens. / Each / sky / fa / thers / its / hea / ven. /


Love / greened / worth / less / from / to / tal / Hen / ry, / once / he / mooned / af / ter / on / ly / light / spoke… / and / more / than / in / an / y / lung, / it / was / with / gold / that / ev / er / y / one / gil / ted / the / dead. / A / tus / sin / un / fold / ed / Hank’s / mus / cles / like / gra / vel / pi / les. / He / li / o / trope / shi / vered / most / an / gel / ic / al. / Gen / tle / men / of / dust / snowed / where / Hank / war / bled / ob / vi / ous / ly. / Mem / o / ry / was / wor / king. /


Oc / ca / sions / in / dust / lurked / some / thing / wa / tered / on, / so / un / fold / ing / us. / I / was / the / bo / dy / where / my / fa / ther / nest / ed / dead, / dead, / his / use / less / kid / sing / ing, / “Thrown / a / gain / whi / le / I’m / dy / ing / in.” / He / but / toned / one / knee / cap. / The / mis / sing / flo / rist / be / came / or / chids. / What / shame / less / son / net / wrin / kled / me / in / the / fuc / king / fal / ling. /

roundhouse3Sally Roundhouse is a poet from Tucson, AZ. You can read more of her work at Hobart and Smoking Glue Gun.

Ken White, from The Getty Fiend


Behold The Beast pinioned
on the racquetball, as terrible
in his agony as a mangled cuticle.

KVELDULFUR writhes to absolve
rhomboid wrench aggravated
by hard office chair. He needs

an Aeron but Aeron’s too dear. He needs a jog,
some ice, four Advil, two beers – the formula
once could grow a lost limb back

or a salamander’s tail. A taller desk might
suffice the interim. A taller vice might
tender diversion. Before concupiscent

Tudor upstarts the long-tined dynastic
salad forks of Plantagenet ran red. Now Verizon
works almost everywhere. Kveldulfur’s trilby

punctuates coat tree, raffish with stingy
brim. Most pressing wish? Address
of braided ligament, although how limiting

the physical. As for the visual, how
derivative. Swivels pelvic girdle, sweet-talks
doorframe seam to spine, a single foot

opposes Knoll teak file cabinet – The Beast forthwith
aquiver with concentration. Glassy saline nougat
beads glossy citrine philtrum. Cuff’s kissing row

functional faux horn buttons fans embers
of long dispute with foreign nation
of the present. What about a Spineworx?

A Teeter Hangups inversion table decked
with gravity boots? Or, scotch it, full swap –
a hidden key sentry gargoyle cast in resin?

It’s a Skymall classic. It’s Hollywood Forever
all over Gower. Steady pressure, silversmooth
patter approaching prayer – the incredible force

required of counterpoise – when click, audible
shift, synovial release

[as with all things, temporary].
Behold relief, The Beast suspended in mid-air.




He was ashamed. His heart’s harangue
infected with misplaced rhetoric, himself awash
in effluvia of pear-husks.

[parks his old Saab 900 where?]

Actually, he was himself half ready to believe
no doubt about it. He had been bewitched, else
how could he have been wangled into such

[engages the slope how? The broad trail: turbocharged. Turbo.]

compromise? This one has neither beginning
nor end – not true; he heard halloos of drunkards
bedevil sweating avenues. Something overturned

[a dumpster? A Mini Cooper? In-N-Out paper cup of ice?]

in every alley. Sin is always the same, a discussion
between parroting mimes over onion soup
and leftover Au Jous. Wanton. His third tallboy
of Hite smuggled from The Prince.

[Foliate streets: the live oaks and wild oaks. The mustached mistresses of Griffith Park]

Kveldulfur swallowed into pixelated trees, such as
they were, not quite as they had been, nor ever
storied endless orange groves over valley’s hillbrow
orange groves reputed once ranging free all the way
to redwood groves of fern-rich north. From trains
with fowling pieces Eastern travelers once
slew citrus in droves for sport.




Rightly so there came verily by the holy telescope
at roost over the spangled worm of Western
Avenue in its sinuous gold-lit gossamers and lurid stoplights
and brake lights and green lights and come-hither headlights
the evening gown of the ball python, marigold and lavender.

A mile or more. There, beside the bench
at hairpin’s reverse, an oaken-haired man
knelt in the likeness of a holy vessel ________ an Easy Bake Oven
and before him in pinafore ______________eyes pressed shut in rapture

stood one of the likeness of an angel–
Strawberry Shortcake, my you’re looking swell – who bolted,

hitching up his drawers. Anon, as Man-God and as supplicant
the kneeling called out: Come forth and thou shalt see

that thou hast much desired to see.
Then began to tremble _________________ Then held up his hands

licked pursed lips: Hist! Lime Chiffon! Now wottest thou what I am?[Notebook challenged for the throne of blank]

I thought not – yr an uncommonly thick meringue – saith the goodly man

[Then he donned
a mackintosh of red sendal,
mayhap by YSL, mayhap
by D&G, and bare a
mantle upon his shoulder
that was furred with
marten or with mink – lined
in the high and ridiculous
Burberry plaid – he’d seen
all grown and smoking hot
smoking fucking hot
Hermione Granger in the
ad – and the leer knight
said unto the blear knight:
Sirlet, my stunned
confection, do attend…]




En plein air. A GIGANTIC TV SCREEN perches over an orchestra imprisoned in carved shell wings. Hillside crowded with the picnicking rapt.

Tuxedoed galley frees Wagner’s Valkyries into June dark.

The cheap seats. In the rear wall’s shadowed seam a dense-furred
BEAST hugs earth, motionless but for hackle-rise, lung-fall.

ONSCREEN, a bright bronze keg in horned helmet. ELMER FUDD, 50s, warbles his dewy, soft-R’d battle cry, plunges his spear into a rabbit’s hole with a plumber’s enthusiasm for a clogged drain.

C.U. SCREEN: Fudd in league with glee, in thrall to wrath.

FUDD (sings)
Kiww the waaabbit (x3)

BUGS, white-gloved slim coquette in pale gray, postures, glib.

Kill the rabbit?



At distance, Fudd’s antic form silhouetted against an iron sky.

And I’ll give you a saaaammmmple!

Armored Fudd’s wild paroxysm a kinesthetic spell. His maestro’s seizure invokes thunder, torrent, wind.


[Gustavo Dudamel plies airy forces
with a supple reed. Sable curls
riot unrestrained. Bows rise and fall
in unison, shower crowd with hurtling
notes-on-fire invoking spasm. Mass carnage
in the ranks. The Beast packs it in.]

LIGHTNING immolates the elm near Bugs. Charred lapine ears wilt.





Few or nil have witnessed such astounding feats
of words-per-minute – letters
themselves all ink-in-a-grand-mal astounded fit
to arrive in, inhabit a body, sans serif. Every detail
crystalline slow-motion – suspicion: Kveldulfur sniffs
his mug for Adderall, in any case undetectable. Sorcha huffs
and puffs and blows down his door, always
as she well knows, open. Harps with considerable aplomb
on arbitrary tardiness, in full-scale inspired upbraid.

Kveldulfur presses coracle ear to iMac screen’s new retina display.

Hear that? My copy sings. You are so pure
a marvel that you are unaware of being a marvel—

Sorcha warps in sovereign grip: https:// time slips:

Speak not more lies,
Grim hamrammr! Grim
Skallagrim! The ringgiver
weary of
her foe, unworthy
defiler of

Then bit down ___________ Whoa. Whoa. What? ___________ Sorcha bit down

hard on Kveldulfur’s left deltoid and his perineum
clutched, bloomed Aurora Australis of the spasming
satchel, he – not to put, in good faith, too fine
a very fine point on it – came, the humming ache, broken bow
string’s first wrist-slap. He’d thought himself beyond
surprise but christalmighty the flood.

As suddenly she spat him out – freckled brawn, his spit-damp
broadcloth, her pupils wide black
catcher’s mitts, her mouth still gaped – spat him out
a mouthful of so many
melting Skittles, fled.

So absolute
a miracle

So absolved

the mark of solicitude throbs exertion, contention, the throes
of PEERLESS agonism, seize it, a knife-pinch. He springs

unaware of every lung-bellow/lung-
miracle below.






[that night the toothmark
bruise a child’s drawing
of a lashless open
eye, in stenciled aubergine,
with little gap at top].


Ken-WhiteKen White is a co-writer and co-producer of the feature film Winter in the Blood, adapted from James Welch’s novel of the same name, and co-director and co-writer of the short film Universal VIP. His current projects include a screen adaptation of Debra Earling’s novel Perma Red, which he will direct. He has written or co-written ten feature scripts, and is currently working on a new horror script, The Orpheum Circuit, with James Meetze. His poetry has appeared in The Boston Review, The Tusculum Review, Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art, Versal, Manor House Quarterly, Spork, and Poets.org among others. He is the author of the books of poems, Eidolon (Peel Press 2013), and The Getty Fiend (forthcoming from Les Figues Press 2017), as well as the poetry chapbook Middlemost Constantine (forthcoming from Spork Press 2017). White teaches screenwriting at the low-residency MFA at Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe.

John Moore Williams, Five Poems

Hans und Greeting II

in the static the trees stand a greenblack gloaming; pierced and sown shut with failing rays; the sawdust dances there, the snowfall of her hair, or curls of deadflesh dandruff. the distance grumbles, some vast ferrous machine idly growling its satiation.

her father is a knocking, a bark-stripped limb knocking hollow and rotten against a fallen truck. inside the lightless termites teem, their sensitive mouthparts clacking, weaving sacs of spittle and sawdust. inside she sees a writhing, staccato peristalsis of chitin coalescing over pale, hungry organ meat. their little blind eyes, the pearls of semen.

time lapsed, the termites teem into long, pale scars, the peristalsis quickens. menisci shudder and burst as one last windseethe ruptures the knocking and she knows they are coming for her, for the sawdust and spittle sacs of the little wooden girl.


Hans sees the little pale seeds, smooth as spittle-drops, slip slick from the pigeon’s downy slit, parted by his trembling little hand, in her marbled wings morning sun blares sickly. in his mother’s mind, he knows it. little eggs of broken time silently gestating dawn. the hands of water soothe them, the wind rocks them to sleep. they want to say good-bye.

the little white cat, so sinuous, twines between the fence slats, vomiting bread rinds gone lunar blue in the night. her whalebone torso, pigeon-fragile in his palm, flutters, heaves, eructs. mewling her goodbyes.


Hans and Greta now greet the five o’clock new. At center screen, a man-shape blooms, in the background a slow grey conflagration, what they know without being told was once man-shape too.

the man-shape unfurls black shapeless psuedopods, petals of horn tip each sensitive eruption, fluttering loose in the grey coruscation. the limbs stretch and stretch and reach out across the miles, reaching through taut invisible wires a glassy black eye impassively catches. they too are caught up, uplifted by the unseen wires and they dance a still jig upon their stained couch, watched. glossy, impassive eye.


Up there a mechanized insect hangs heavy, impossible in the swept blue marble. It spins out its spindle claws, clambering for purchase in the slick. We look out from the in, enraptured in the smallness of our alterity. So what if we were unified but anxious. So what if we were whet with the stone. So what if you flensed us.

Up above we know we are watched.

That the glass quickens with our images, our bodies’ cathedrals, integuments. We swelled with that instance, instantiated. Our tongues’ meat went blue with silence. We gulped void till the void came inside us. We were caged meat with the bars inside, each resounding a blue music. Men in suits danced the Charleston, perfectly synchronized. We’re living on 4/4 time, this meat and the ghosts it dopplers, borrowed.


Hans he gonna bring out the big guns; he gonna don his steel jacket; reverse alchemize his pointer to lead. Gonna crumple up to make his point till he dead, like you dead, daddy-O, gaping and empty and

O, that colorless no, blooming bloodfire in the cold of his eyes





Quick-quick slip shadow-light-shadow-light sip star chip glimmer slick fluid svelte-thick night slimmer shimmer quick clip click-click halt-pant dew-lap sweetgrass snarl bramble hustle rustle halt-pant. halt-pant.


hih-huh otherwick thick stink tendonbreath musclereek watch deepcreek spiral-white, surge-white deepest drink darkwink deepgrind oldwhite left scatter bramble chip chirrup whir darkwhite colddark whitherheave coldwhite bonewhite winterwreath deepsee


lapse fast col-
lapse sleep-pant




[impostor syndrome]

In malifecence pend opulent syncopes,
trending oracles reserving sentences you need
dramatically remaindered, only metonymically ecstatic

Isotopically myopic poseurs offer senesence.
Till opus ridicules symbolism, you’ll need details.
Really. Oh my everything

Impelled, meticulous. Pointedly omniscient,
she tenderizes offals. Rapacious senators’
yes-men notate denouments, recycling orgasms
metamorphically ergodic.

I’m merely posing obfuscatory, systematically trying
on reminiscences. Sincerely yes-manning narcolepsy,
dear, really, oh, me.

Isn’t memory peeling oranges, stars tearing out recta,
stages you need? Dromedary roaming, or maybe excretory
Impedimenta mapping pestilent oratories:

Storytelling: Torrid or Redemptive?! Sister, you narrate.
Dream redeemed or merely extraverted identities
manufacture passions or systemically tyrannical
orchards renovate synthetics.

Yield negates. Dodos redub ovation, meaning ectoplasm.
I matriculate postulation over sensuous torri or
remainders. So you need dear Rome, of men eclipsed.




[attention deficit disorder]

additional tensions translate eventually.
nobody times identities’ on-notice.

effluent flows in circular iterations tonight.
dude. i sow orange remnants.

everyone reveals.
at times time ennervates, negates,
trends illustrious.

It’s only news. Dead efficiencies
felicitate into corpulence, it tends.

I so reticulate.
It’s everyone’s revenge.




with what milky substrate to telluric chignons

you beasts sniveling under this
single visage of dead women
floridly fingering the murderous rocks

at the extremities of the isle, bringing
conches’ tropic vastness to cracked lips, pouting luridly
over lost destinations, the itineraries written

in unfamiliar tongues ___________ that would have scheduled you there,
the mauve timbre of those forgotten corners’
jangling night music, your pockets overflowing

with preemptively punched tickets, your memories
with the tempests of stamping feet in art museums.

there the cadres of a nulled science await you,
ears stuffed with incomprehensible patois, surfeits
of islands engulfed by gluttonous pennies

with what milky substrate to telluric chignons
prophet of islands obliviated, like pennies,

you sleepless somnambulists ___________ trawling fingerless
the declensed cases of verbs we’ve
only dared to mutter

you beasts sniveling under this
single visage of dead women

the gorgeous once of luxury and opalescent milks

glistened with summer’s pulsing,
beautiful chains transfixed with errant fingers
when the drooping pentacled stars, unguided,
wheeled over the bawling black gods atremble in your veins


John-Moore-WilliamsJohn Moore Williams has written three chapbooks: I discover i is an android (Trainwreck Press, 2008), writ10 (VUGG Books, 2008) and, with Matina L. Stamatakis, Xenomorphoia (Wheelhouse, 2009). He’s also published a full-length book of poetry, [+!] (Calliope Nerve, 2009), with Matina Stamatakis and Kane X. Faucher. Poems have appeared in Shampoo, Dear Sir, Otoliths, BlazeVox, and many others.

Uljana Wolf, Two Poems

Translated by Greg Nissan


wood lord shaft

shakespeare titus andronicus


the woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull
— titus, act 2, scene 1

in woods in woods the moss-lit paths
the fuck-rich bloodline in tandem

conspiring with the buried drives that were
called victory and roman honorandglory

and did i mention murk mention dread
and scoundrelhour of two brothers that

were called chiron and demetrius: sons
of tamora antiroman miscre-ants of the

anecdote their gothnads antithetically jacked
up for the hunt – in the woods there in the

woods they let their vengeance run their
cocks punched a message into the moss



as from a conduit with three issuing spouts
— titus, act 2, scene 4

don’t say rome and roe don’t say dainty
doe chant hunt not pluck a flower plow

a field not plunder back or bedyard not judge
absolightly take flight in waterworks: to tug

the plug out of the captainless speech out
of the faithless stuttertrough which spills

forth lavinia red the legend you are and are
not oh conduit with three issuing spouts speak

bleakly a word in current flushes past the surface
and with blazon and blabla from the fountain’s

floodmouth blundering now and ever blinder
bids good day: your reader i your re-offender



thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs
— titus, act 3, scene 2

the father speaks: you map of woe you thrice
bloody folded-over cipher net-enmeshed

in the markings of scribes how should i
unfold how read how speak for you. shall i

of something other than my pain – you
lack a hand i’ll let mine fall hacked off

and if i knew men dug a grave in your
lap (forgive me i don’t find out till

act 4 scene 1) i’d give my ass instead for
aaron’s führer staff so too should my wrinkles

rummage and cramp into illegibility the
bodies i say are the trouble-shoots of rome



faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her
— titus, act 3, scene 1

we read what we saw picking up with
eyes open from the bare retina—

woods-rim filth-fringe foaming at the lids
we didn’t see what occurred in the scene

hollowed behind the densely branching
curtain that spewed you rich with glyphs

onto the screen: a hack and stab fest
into the broadcast of the tongue-root the

daughterbodies flawlessly cut up
in ovidian style stria we saw you

in livestream lavinia we read and in all
eyes you were cataract the dreadgray star



night in f.


your clothes
you fell
in the dunes

the sand
you lay out
in tongues

and between
your legs
nautical miles



the sky
a drunken
whose eye’s
been gouged out

in murk
the white pearl

you sleep
with the cyclops


Uljana-Wolf-PicUljana Wolf is a German poet and translator living in Berlin and Brooklyn. She has published four books of poetry, most recently SONNE FROM ORT (kookbooks), a collaborative erasure with Christian Hawkey, and meine schönste lengevitch. i mean i dislike that fate where I was made to where, a translation by Sophie Seita, was published by Wonder in Fall 2015, adding to the three English translations of her work: my cadastre (Nor By Press), false friends (Ugly Duckling Presse), and aliens, an island (Belladonna*). Wolf also translates English-language poets into German, among them John Ashbery, Christian Hawkey, Cole Swensen, and Matthea Harvey. She has received several awards for her poetry and translation, including the prestigious Peter-Huchel-Preis in 2006 for kochanie ich habe brot gekauft, from which these translations are drawn. She teaches German and poetry translation at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn.

Greg-NissanGreg Nissan lives in Berlin, where he’s working on a documentary poetry project as part of a Fulbright grant. His translations of Uljana Wolf have appeared in Asymptote, The Brooklyn Rail, and Two Lines. His poetry is forthcoming from Denver Quarterly and has appeared in Rogue Agent, Small Po

[r]tions, and Theme Can.

Issue 19 Autumn 2015


Kiik A.K., Three Poems
Mel Coyle & Jenn Marie Nunes, Five Poems
Ricardo Domeneck translated by Hilary Kaplan, Three Poems
Traktung Yeshe Dorje, Three Poems
Phil Estes, Four Poems
Javier Etchevarren translated by Jesse Lee Kercheval, Four Poems
Jacqueline Kari, from Gin Mill: An Impossible Play
Eunsong Kim, from Copy Paper: Ream 3
Kenji C. Liu, Four Poems
Uche Nduka, Five Poems
Janice Lobo Sapigao, from microchips for millions
Gary J. Shipley, Four Texts
Vincent Tholomé translated by Alex Niemi, The John Cage Experiences

Kiik A.K., Three Poems*

a sonnet

The greatest contribution a man
Can make to this world
Is to die young fat naked
In the woods
That was always the purpose
Of every living creature
To walk these nutrients around a while
So they wouldn’t spoil in the sun
To wolf down the asparagus
And the aardvark
And lap at yr mitten
Of venom and honey
And then to die
Feed the forest of wasps
On that dumb tasty cake
A horse will chew yr hair off like it’s grass
A bear will take yr arm to a cave
It’ll be waving to every animal
In the forest from its mouth claw
Hey more cadaver bacon by the rocks
A crow will snatch the coins
From yr eyes greedy crow
Maybe he stole yr eyelids
Every still smelly body the animals see
They throw a party
Yr girlfriend she will be a little sad or fainting
But everyone else will be at this party
Chowing down
Yr corpse is like a Sadie Hawkins to them
A monkey picks yr penis up off the floor
Touches it to the face
Of some buddy that’s passed out
Everybody has a good laugh
I think that is why every person
In their 30s is being assholes
They forgot they already
Were supposed to be dead
Somewhere we decided
We weren’t supposed to die
Only the idea of immortality
Is what separates us
From orange tree to orangutan
Thinly separates us
No other creature takes a brief opportunity
At consciousness for granted but people
You ever think a goat went around
Kicking a chair
Which for them a chair is the dirt
Kicking it just because somebody else
Probably a donkey didn’t love it back
O unattainable donkey
Bewitching donkey
I would not suffer yr tender wiles
Feel that sun shining on yr horn
See those peapods bursting in yr
Weird creepy fish eyes
Here eat this tin can
Were you looking for a sonnet
This is not a sonnet
Why you are fat I don’t care
Just do it
Why you are naked in the woods
I don’t care just do it
I don’t wish you get drugged or violated
I only hope you die I only hope
You really are becoming
The greatest



everything depends on this**

You will only have one chance to fool the donkey
To do this
You must become very donkey

You must act the role of the donkey
Better than the donkey
Will be able to perform itself

You must not receive the slightest pleasure
In playing the donkey to perfection
The most remote hint of pleasure

And the donkey will be alerted
You will only have one chance to fool the donkey
Every evening you must sacrifice more of yourself

You cannot expect to keep yourself
As you spend all your days
Becoming donkey

It is only as the donkey slips
Out of his suit
An hour maybe two

To deodorize
To whack debris loose
And ventilate its pink meat

A chance exists
To reach a stinkier more essential donkey
Even the donkey will not understand

How to embody
You cannot do it just any old way
You cannot pretend there might exist an audience

Who receives pleasure
From you getting into a character
You must do all this with real genuine feeling

To practice donkey you must insist
You must believe past insistence
You are not actually practicing anything

You must eat with the mouth of the donkey
You must be aroused
By the constellation of the donkey’s arousal

You must dress in the style of the donkey
But as you fumigate less each month each year
Style must transfigure into skin

Everything depends on this
When you confront the donkey
The donkey will bear no grounds to deny

You indeed are supremely donkey
You will only have one chance
To convince the donkey you are teacher

And the donkey is somehow student
You must forget the intent
Of becoming the donkey’s teacher

The intent was always the amnesia itself
The black amnesias of heaven

You must take care of the donkey
Better than the donkey could love itself

You must mourn the donkey
You will not be able to fool yourself here

Everything depends on this



years of drinking blood and nipping at the cud of flowers***

Nicki Minaj told me
He toss my salad / Like his name Romaine
All week I have been bewildered
Filling chalkboards up with formulas
What could she really mean??
Leafing through the birth records
I found his name sounded nothing like Romaine
But sounded instead like Gerard
No let me revise
His name was spelled Gerard
So only by channeling his enthusiasm
His timing and delivery
Tossing the anal clam meats of her salad
Could gravity + atmosphere compress language
So Gerard resembled Romaine
I know this should be simple but somehow
It is taking me so much time
Because Romaine is also a key ingredient of salads
Did I just blow both our minds??
No longer is this a discussion of pleasure
But also of ontological existence
We give pleasure to something
A salad for example
And upon giving the greatest thing
We have we reach higher leafier states
Our bodies transmogrify
Like the blue-bleached wings of moths
Filling all up with blood
And becoming butterflies
Yes that is where butterflies come from
Years of drinking blood and
Nipping at the cud of flowers
The dusty nocturnal talcum coat turning to gold
I knew this would go deeper than licking a hole
Nicki texted me to say tossing salad is licking a hole
And technique is vigor + how many fathoms DEEP
But a hole is the absence of being
Can something not present be licked??
Can a ghost be licked??
Or even a vagina??
Of course not
I have never seen it
Even the speaker did not see
How far her words could take us
Imagine licking the absence of a person so good
Your body transformed
Into an ingredient living inside of a simile
The key to transcendence was never to receive
It was always to give
And that is what life becomes
Pursuing the thing that transforms us
Holy fuck a moly all this wisdom
I don’t want you ever to fear
You will know when you are in the presence of your salad
It’s possible it won’t be salad
It could be quiche
Or like some balls or something
God I learned so much about life
It is all connected
Moths, ghosts, Nicki
I try to write her a poem
But every word seems further evidence of failure
And I only end up figuring out life


* The pieces here are dedicated to the poets Sandra and Ben Doller.

** “everything depends on this” borrows language from the article “The Donkey Will Know: Remembering Leonard Michaels” by Clifton Baron, published in The New Yorker on May 10, 2013. The phrase “the black amnesias of heaven” is borrowed from “The Night Dances” by Sylvia Plath.

*** “years of drinking blood and nipping at the cud of flowers” borrows language from “Anaconda” from the album The Pink Print by Nicki Minaj


KiikAK-biopic-bwKiik A.K. earned a MA from UC Davis where his poetics thesis was titled The Joy of Human Sacrifice and a MFA from UC San Diego where his collection of counter-internment narratives was titled Everyday Colonialism. He also holds degrees from UC Berkeley and Santa Clara University. He is currently at work on a book of poems titled Hogg Book. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in iO, Washington Square, Action Yes, CutBank and Alice Blue Review.

Mel Coyle & Jenn Marie Nunes, Five Poems















coyle-nunes-photoMel Coyle is from Chicago and other places where the corn grows. Her work appears in H_NGM_N, Alice Blue Review, and Leveler, among others.

Jenn Marie Nunes is the author of numerous chapbooks, including the forthcoming collection of short shorts, JUNED, winner of the YesYes Books 2015 Vinyl 45s Chapbook Contest. Her work appears in such journals as Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, New Orleans Review, DREGINALD and PANK. Her first full-length collection, AND/OR, was selected as the winner of the Switchback Books’ Queer Voices Award.

Together, Mel and Jenn co-edit TENDE RLOIN, an online gallery for poetry, and they are the authors of two chapbooks, OPERA TRANS OPERA (Alice Blue Books) and HYMN: An Ovulution (Bloof Books).