JD DEHART – FASHION SENSE

Fashion Sense

Coming to terms

with the fact that a loop

of metal will probably

never grace my ear

or nose –

Despite the way some people

absorb neon, fashion themselves

with tattoos, swim in their own

soup of counterculture,

figures out of a science fiction

self-made landscape, who

make rips and scraps converge

I am much more likely to be

found in a soft T-shirt, or couched

in corduroy, nursing a tattered

book as if it might solve my universe.

TOM MONTAG – PEAR

PEAR

The trick is

to be clear

so often,

then to show —

nothing in

this hand, and

nothing in

this one — a

confounding

innocence

just before

you disap-

POETRY: WILLIAM DORESKI – THUNDERSTORM PAVILION

Thunderstorm Pavilion

From the thunderstorm pavilion

we watch rain brew over China

then cruise across the Pacific

and slop ashore at Carmel.

Crossing the continent in moments,

it arrives in time to endorse

explorations we’ve kept secret

from our many pear-shaped friends.

The thunder itself is a rumor

we’ve paid our agents to spread.

Writhing octoploid in the wash,

we absorb a million volts

to glow in places no one glows

unless assuming the leadership

of islands of fabulous wealth.

With your pale expensive thighs

you scissor off lengths of sky

to drape over the coffins

of those whose clothing wrinkled

in downpours we had to sponsor

for the sake of unborn children

whose inheritance is in doubt.

The glass of the pavilion fogs

to conceal our best maneuvers

as clouds the color of angels

enter and kneel to worship

not us but the distance between.

POETRY: JOSEPH SOMOZA – SPIRITUAL

Spiritual What you want to tell is your story, though you can’t hear it here where four wildroses have popped out despite the wind gusts that threaten to disperse their petals. They think it’s just fine to come to life again and feel wind and sun touch them in their particular corner behind cinderblocks, […]

POETRY: NATALIE CRICK – WEDDING CAKE

Wedding Cake

We eat the top of your wedding cake,

Stale sugar pieces cracking our teeth,

Promising each mouthful

To be the last,

Buttercream drooling from

Sticky fingers,

Pregnant with cream,

Pink pearls to be kissed.

Plump lips wait,

Shivering from loneliness.

We listen to the screaming downstairs

The plastic bride and groom

Sucked clean of sweetness.

POETRY: NELS HANSON – GUESTS

Guests

A lost dog and at his side

a lost friend are running day

and night across blue rivers’

bridges, down red roads not

clay but pavement, from state

to state each a map’s different

color. No time for rest or sleep,

to eat, only random wild root

or berry, quick short drink from

a cold spring. Each hour I hear

them growing closer, closer,

expect at any second one kind

paw scratch at my screen door,

the whisper of patient knocking,

muted, shy, polite but unafraid

no one will answer after their

long journey as I rise to greet

my two guests, the strangers

I’ve waited all my life to meet.

POETRY: ROBIN WYATT DUNN – NOT ENOUGH

Not Enough

not enough

now

or ever

after the rain wrought

wrinkled

wet

and worlded

the way out

it’s not enough

the way you held the standard poem

and read it out

the way the world loved it

and gave me the towel

to wipe you down

give the world all its bliss

and give me everything after

in the ruins

where I can make my home

POETRY: RICHARD KING PERKINS II – DODGY EDGE

Dodgy Edge

You’re out shopping
right now

for the room
we’re going to share
tonight.

It will be cheap,
somewhere
on the dodgy edge of town

but you’re looking
at the color
and pattern of the curtains

the quality of the artwork
on the walls.

I’m disappearing
in faint gusts of wind

lost in anticipation

wondering why
you expect to take away
anything more

than what
I put inside you.

Poetry: Matthew Heston – Dear Kelly

Dear Kelly

Some things exist only to be seen by

those that need them most. As a

child, I watched a young theologian

reduce the divine to a chalkboard

sketch. Time is a circle that we live

inside, he explained, and that the Almighty

exists outside of. How simple

the universe is, sometimes. I’ve driven

down enough country roads to know

what loneliness is, walked down enough

city streets to know the isolation of

crowds. Wherever you are, you are

small amidst the vastness of the unknown.

I am standing atop a bridge, surrounded

by strangers, watching an eclipse

overhead. One whispers to another,

“We are witnessing history.” It’s true.

In eighteen years there will be

another, and by then none of us will

remember each other’s names.

Scrawled on a Yosemite Park Map

To the couple from the orange tent

whose amorous shushes

crept around the campground

long into the night like a bear

looking for leftovers,

I’m sorry if my kids

happened to slam the car doors

a few too many times

on our way out to an early morning

Ranger-led flora and fauna walk.

Staring at a lineup of RVs

crammed with wildlife-gawking

selfie-stick swinging day-trippers,

he said: the valley

had become a petting zoo.

Better head for the high country

if you’re looking for something wild.

So we did, and found more people and cars

but also endless pine, something blue

called sky, and mountains rising up

with a shrug that said: if not wild

then closer. Maybe it was the thin air,

or not showering for five days,

but I’d recommend the ice-clear lake

I dove into, for once not wondering

how much time was left on the clock.

Cacti Fur

a poetry high ground

poetry