Author: Alfonso Colasuonno

I collect myself, by Tawnya Renelle

in fingernail clippings curly red pubic hair in the smell of socks bobby pins in the carpet in popped zits stacks of journals in skin tattooed I collect myself in case nobody else does   Tawnya Renelle is a poet from Bellingham, WA. She completed a MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College and is […]

Shadows At Night, by Natalie Crick

Shadows dance: The shape of your ghost A pornography of orchids, Soft, quiet as new snow. Night fulls. Our bodies grow limbs. They rise and sink, Feeling for a heartbeat. Longing, melting Like dead bees pouring From a smoking hive. Tulip petals close. The stars will not hold back. They starve for light. Moon dreams […]

Rezanoff Drive, by Glenn Nelson

I can no longer remember certain things about the past. Faces dissolve…. A gentle touch… gone… like a candle blown out by the wind. There are still shapes in the fog…. A sort of lingering form in the darkness. I can still remember the disjointed rattling of the el train as it passes by my […]

Two Poems, by Gale Acuff

Delilah and Samson Man, do I love my wife since she shaved her head. And I mean bald, as if it never was intended to bear hair. I like sports so she’s just about any ball I can think of–billiard, bowling, bearing, BB. One night I dared her to do it and she did. It […]

Valley of Darkness, by Matt Nagin

Sam Sheperd, a degenerate gambler, was in debt $80,000 to a loan shark, $10,000 to a mobster, $5,000 to his girlfriend, and he had a wife and kid who looked only marginally better than those starving villagers on “Save The Children” commercials. Sam tried to take it all in stride; to look philosophically on his […]

Little Daydream, by Zoe Frances Mulford

Holy moly call me ‘cause all I wanna do is lay under rays with you, yeah, maybe start my 401 k with you, overheat in saunas, overhear gossip, outlive your pet fish with you. My dear, someday we’ll pretend to be vegetarians for a week in hopes of feeling particularly chic. And midweek, when we […]

Melancholy, by Maddy Hoffman

I bring my fingers to my face and stroke my stubbly chin. I do this to ensure that Magnolia’s words have not stripped me of my skin the way they have my conscience. She’s stopped crying beside me, I think. It happened slowly – her weeps trickled down to sniffles, and then to silence. I […]

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