Chris Ozog

Editor b, poetry

Knight’s Night Out You write your memoir of shattered mirrors and misconstrued epiphanies. for every recollection, every doubt that binds your mountainous limitation, to the top of the summit of debt, retaliations still sings as it’s proliferation stings, dissection of affluent memories persist, onto life’s projection where you tip-toe towards your demise, a modest dignitary forever monetized within life’s monotony, …

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Brown Water

Editor b, poetry

I liken the effects of coffee multiplying in my nervous system to the sound of cicadas, cacophony transitioning to unison on the warmest of days, finally climaxing, singular high pitch, solid throbbing greater than the sum of its parts. My brain ceases to exist outside itself for a period, all becomes internal cloaking haze before the caffeine begins to sluice …

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Soak

Editor b, fiction

I have an image in my mind. It is an image of a particular man. He is perhaps less scruffy than he was over the weekend, and no matter how close his morning shave he reached the evening’s shadow. I see him, soaking in a tub. There are no candles burning. No bubbles. No salt crystals filling pastel jars tucked in …

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I Pour You This Poem

Editor b, poetry

But I can only pour you this poem: with poor cloth-made and form not yet shaped, metaphors rain upon flesh and bone floating riddles dress in pale champagne froth tiers of honeysuckle foam pin to a clover’s song light seeps inside the ink droplets black– an ever-musing vestal rhyme charts my fingers to your mortal gasps. With warmth of day …

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With a Slash Between

Editor b, fiction

She scribbles a few letters on the back of her card and hands it to him. She smiles and says something cheerful. The words don’t matter. As he takes the card, he answers in kind, if only to keep his tenuous grasp on the vision of civility he’s retreated into. He does not think of all the countless things he …

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Dan Jacoby

Editor b, poetry

luck   young dog standing in the blocks four blue bills working in against a cigar smoke call once more around try to take them tree high shots tipped one and feathers out of another but the steel shot fails me they are gone like mad buddists westing to the timber only the grey spent husks to show for   …

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Baking in My Sleeping Bag

Editor b, poetry

You’re on the other side being abstract, acting distant,   I have a stack of thoughts in front of me, unfinished; have poems to write, poems I should be writing; instead   I’m writing this; an   alarm goes off, it’s mine   Saturday morning, you’re laying around somewhere, Cootie Williams is blowing Gator Tail; I shut the blinds   …

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Terminal

Editor b, poetry

The time until you die grips the top of my hand   grates my fingers against puckered metal   collects skin and bone shavings   into a soft pile on the good China.   by Jane Juran  ...

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Ashlie Allen

Editor b, poetry

Like lace   Itsuki always dances behind cob webs There, he can manifest several shapes and pick which one he likes   Sometimes I help him move, for he has no control over his particles He is like lace, weightless and transparent   Sometimes I worry I will injure him if I want to kiss his cheek bone or cradle …

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SHIN-ZEN-BI

Editor b, poetry

(truth-harmony-beauty: the necessary conditions to create or perceive a Bonsai)     i   In Santa Monica, on a crowded Promenade I stare at the tiny tree on the tilted cart At the silent, knuckle-thick trunk That angles impossibly down. Bristlecone Pine. Cascading. Dwarfed by pruning, training.   I have been told:   To see a Bonsai Forget that branches …

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3, 2, 1…

Editor b, poetry

Let it burn until all that is left is a black crisp of dehydrated exoskeleton jerky. What do I care? I did not create this place. I did not ask to play this game. I did not stuff the coal shafts. I did not dig the oil wells. I did not clamor for the goldmines. I did not manifest destiny …

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Sun Fungus

Editor b, nonfiction

I haven’t said my skin is ash. I hyperpigment where the band of my sports bra rests, where a racer back runs rigid between my blades, where my favorite strand of pearls wants to lay. I sliver tiny shavings of my skin where these polka-dots amass. I fragment, and I flake, but I fold myself in scarves and sweatshirts so …

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