Kimberly Lyons
Jointly published with Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs

In Madras

In Madras, a storm of notes like ants
or thick dust subtracts
from the body in which
the sheen of a gluey blue bubble
languidly attached to a stem of white
simultaneously inflates and sags,
as does a thrown out purple sofa in the rain
next to a red tin for Chinese cookies & yellow rubber sandals.
The mighty peony, degraded, endures
as a link to be grasped like the smell
of the pipe’s exhalation at a birthday party
not forgotten exactly - just less attended to
in the clamor of oils and collision of shadows
on Maxwell Street. The panic of the bull,
oily and black as time
focused on the red whirl
of the future’s cascade
that collapses
in the private gauze of tears
swimming across the gaze
in an afternoon’s sandstorm light.

Book 5
Alan Davies

no more


See you
won’t talk


gone over


or else
you yours

Over Here
Frank Sherlock


[Out of print]

            Out there is sunsetted a low-wattage glow
       to backlight the active to give the theories their shine
       Stacked books of forever stamps have already
       blanketed trails     Finding the next lost history via
       these lives will be a wandered conversation beginning w/
       the theory that turns on the active    A child
       stands alone w/ a gas can in hand
Bomb belt hula hoop        juice box w/ a pull pin     Keep the straw squeezed &
       nobody gets hurt    It has almost been covered almost
       a memory like the time when the bison had space

ambience is a novel with a logo
Tan Lin

[Out of print]

I believe a novel should not preserve things, it should blank them out very very slowly around all those beautiful, corrosive things that are not happening in the world and that usually involve figures of state and violent incursions in countries far from our own and the loss of our loved ones. Every novel is just a form of false advertising, a kind of fragile corporate monogram for something that has not yet become "dated" or "historic" or ugly enough. Every corporation should have a novel as your logo and every logo should contain the death of your family inside it.

The 16s
C.S. Carrier

[Out of print]

My ligature takes off, becomes all scarf. The Ukraine got poisoned, its face banged up. Little amber lights flash regularity. Sleep billows & crawls & insinuates darkness, a leap nudges the feints of newborns from pedestals. The larynxes there wait for me to scoop them & pry them open. What’s a house? I have chesthair, it grows in blond tufts. Whoever controls potassium controls the world. Sketchiness is worse in the woods because it can’t be seen. I’m a man which means I’m a yawn. A pair of cleats pools the bed, unable to run or wash its face or think of sex. I don’t want questions here because they’re expected. The blizzard’ll keep the driveway’s days. I trace outlines of extensioncords & cellphones onto canvas, then glue newsprint to it, then smear serotonin on it. The canvas aches, it wants to be closed in the fist. Silver treads with elbows above pierce the arms.

If and When
Jess Mynes

[Out of print]


bee rests on
railing corner rain
drops from treetops
plink rust into
crusted needles
limply lash laurel
flowers clump
parachute where
taller trees were
extracted raise
fronds as fists
of purplish
white swallowtail
pauses bird’s
pitched twittering
spindly necked
stagger of ferns
tips furled
punctuate power
lines slick licorice

Z Formation
Michael Slosek

[Out of print]

Three Versions of the Imaginary

Spun, where a head is grown
backwards, to its root.
Inside the reversal of blood
where the first line rhymes with the last one.

So what might be
the loss of language
or simple forgetting
(where "so" and "or" are interchanged)

calling to each other
becomes a form of silence, shifting
in the sentence, down
to an accidental darkness.

Self Charm: Selected Sonnets & Other Poems
Samuel Greenberg
Edited by Michael Carr & Michael Smith

[Out of print]

Samuel Greenberg died of tuberculosis in 1917 at 23 years old. The contents of this selection date from around 1915 and 1916, during which he worked on his most concerted poetic effort, the Sonnets of Apology. Greenberg was an eccentric poet enraptured by language. His works only began to be noticed well after his death and, while still largely unknown, they are claimed to anticipate surrealism as well as having gained the admiration of Hart Crane & John Ashbery. The texts in this volume, some of which have never appeared in print before, retain the many idiosyncrasies of Greenberg’s original manuscripts.


The opera singer softly sang
Like the pellucid birds of Australian
thicket, Anatomy's lace wrung
The cells of thousand feelings
And tastes, centigrades power
Told climates revelations
The Psycologist felt the Heart
The poets instinct slumber apart
through the parks, the Forest
Filled the air of insense pure
The paintor bent his brush
through sensations quest
Time weeps in patence duration
through scepters creat imotional risist

Black Beauty
Monica Fambrough

[Out of print]

The Spanish Flinch

In her chest is a white heart.
It will give us shade, a place
to sleep or last. Or ring out
in the electric light. Tethered
to the top of a pinball,
she is always moving.
Some say handy -
full enough,

Claire Obscure
Christopher Rizzo

[Out of print]

Pill love. Twenty-four hour love feel love dissolve communions. Type O stream. Feel. Again. A gain. Anon abandoned love a pulse a non factor. There are anon numbers are contrivances. The letter means and means nothing.

Make it consumptive means make me make with a feel, make me, feel anon, make me feel a non loved sequitur. Quit logic failed. Quiet the numbers. One round white flat pill, inscribed. Pro and prescription. A fill.

All there is here, body. No know God no reference. Love biochemical. Vital. Viral. To catch, as in a meaning of. Quiet the letters.

Letters by which Sisters Will Know Brothers
Laura Solomon

[Out of print]

The new blue thing is not unlike the old red thing
Night and we don’t even know what
to do with our garbage
Brother ghost, put away your kiss
it is too wet with tears and you
are too dead for either kissing or crying
Once I killed a boy for a dollar fifty
My sister stitched close his eyes he couldn’t see for a week
She walks these hills in a long black veil
I spend my time staring at a wall
An unknown woman makes a joke
My mother laughs too hard

Film Poems
Mark Lamoureux

[Out of print]

From the introduction:
"These poems were written in the darkened theater...and attempt to mimetically simulate the experience of viewing the films, as the film unfolds for the first time, so does the poem; consequently each poem’s destination is uncertain."


Bright spot

thru salt
pointillist space
firmament furls

Eyes Dipped in Longitude Lines 
Lori Lubeski

[Out of print]

From The beauty quiets down

The downs syndrome proprietor leads me on
and the Pakistani store clerk gives me free items for sex
and I steal expensive shampoo for the one I love and the
vague order of the implicit moment heralds me
like the horse ride around central park

there is no itinerary more complex
than navigating a social sphere
a random collection of scrapbooks
reveals the daze you've been in

I wait for your door to be open
I wait for the night to delude me

while you are paid to entertain me
with small optimistic narratives
created for the illusion of control

I am Trying to be a Good Horse
Travis Nichols

[Out of print]

From On the 730th Day God Made Me Happy

This was before our descent
into winter, when I believed
the world would freeze me forever
for secretly believing I could be satisfied
forever without fiery ropes
dredging my shoulders nightly,
that boiling water was a physical change but
making toast chemical and irreversible,
yet possible everyday.

Our outsides are cold this morning,
slid upon by foreign sheets. In the dream
paper wings with buzzard windows
twisted around our goose bumped thighs.

Chris Jackson

[Out of print]

Birth or Torture

You daring lousy guy consider the appliances you have
now and those you plan to buy in the future will one
ever be courage in the face of extreme danger or extreme
moral strength or firmness of mind extreme difficulty cudgel
one’s brains daring but not courageous foxy but not
beautiful when I ask you if you’ll take a paternity test
what I mean is I know who gave head to whom at the last

party for me a symbol of love is a waffle
iron be it successful or burning be sure you
have one as you build your house of lost

children and this is my prayer to St.
Stephen please do not hurt anyone and not
yourself anymore you’re not a martyr don’t beat him.

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