Chekhov’s Confession.

by Robert Earle

Even if he was only staying one night as the guest of Madame G, Anton Chekhov’s arrival in our town created a sensation. The man, like the weather w...

Warm and Clear, the Night.

by Rich Ives

1. Constellation Albert The name his mother gave him formed the only fixed position in a passing sky, the connecting points given but the boundaries...


Three Poems.

by Gabe Foreman

  Sitting Ducks There will be tribulations. Perhaps a tree falls, crushing your horse whose hooves you then boil down to glue your lips shut, k...


by Jenna Jarvis

1. Poetry is a lie … but it cakes to the brain and poems are portal guns meaning and meant.   2. in fact: I am the speaker— no— narrator ...

Two Poems.

by Ricky Garni

Jimbo Altered to Italics It was Nancy who said I was a bowling ball. Nancy who said I love you while looking at a bowling ball. Francis who said I c...

Encomium, from the Front Porch.

by Joe Wilkins

come a summer evening    that breeze in the daisies they walk    arrhythmic    off kilter    thin-necked daisies foundering in the wind    touch onl...

Three Poems.

by Salvatore Difalco

King of the Apple The apple looked like an artificial Insofar as optics went, crisp red shell The apple of your dreams in red plastic! Seizing the g...

Dear Customer.

by Meredith Davies Hadaway

As someone who has purchased books by William Shakespeare, you might like to know that Hamlet: Safe for the Whole Family to Read Aloud will soon be ...

Two Poems.

by Paul Watsky

This Is a Farewell Kiss, You Dog, Shouted a bellicose journalist later beaten by cops to the tune of broken ribs, an arm, and internal bleeding alth...


“Jokes Falling in Gravity”: A Review of Jones’ The Brave Never Write Poetry and Gabe Foreman’s A Complete Encyclopedia of Different Types of People.

by E Martin Nolan

  It is perhaps unwarranted to compare Gabe Foreman’s A Complete Encyclopedia of Different Types of People to Daniel Jones’ The Brave Never Write Poetry. But when Foreman’s book was launched on the same night that Jones’s was re-launched, the comparison was somewhat inevitable. Many in attendance that night were introduced to both poets at once, and the books seemed natural fellows: both drew laughs (actual laughs, not just the inappropriate ones so common at readings) and both were jarringly refreshing in their natural irreverence. But upon further reflection, stark contrasts began to emerge. Jones is funny, yes, but he is also heavy. You could smell these poems, they left you bruised. Jones wrote gutter poems in clean, straight-ahead English that nonetheless retained a lyricism, as if insisting that some brittle grace survives the nastiness that otherwise dominates them. Take, for instance, these lines from “The Anti-Bourgeois:” I’m drunk and …...