Because I could not stop for Death

By Emily Dickinson,

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.


We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –


We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –


… Continue reading

Multum in Parvo

By Niko Nelson,

By  Niko Nelson|


at the top of the Sierras
heroin don’t reach
free markets
forgotten on tongues
of bare-breasted natives
big-boned ladies talking
‘40s ‘20s ‘30s
no coffee for their coffee
of unfiltered blacks
on streets like waves … Continue reading

One-Week Dean

By Daniel Aristi,

You hombres’d like to know maybe or, rather, I’d like to tell you of a pale whoreboy by the Texaco, like the last chocolate – he’s long been travelling, he says, the capillaries of the nation.

Leather-Jacket-Right-On-Own-Skin type this fallen, fallen, three times fallen James Dean; jacket’s unzipped, door ajar & straight into his ivory (also, Marlboros for fireplace). … Continue reading


By Lucas Gonzalez,


I like the idea that the West is still working
while the East that never sleeps
has long been tilted into darkness

Just as it once struck me to have ‘Karma’
So euphoniously explained as
‘The universal law of cause and effect.’ … Continue reading

The Key

By Matthew DiPaoli,

I’ve come to Rome for salvation. It’s become fashionable—menopausal women attempting to recapture a fictional youth, American co-eds exploring their sexual ferocity, fountain fucking with unobtainable women born of the Cinecitta.

The eternal city has a way of showing you how much you’ve changed because it never does. Many years earlier, I’d lived steps away from the Vatican. It’s incredible that something so small has so much power, like a little pope-sized battery. Prayer carried on the torrential Roman winds and slithered straight through my window. Sometimes I pretended it was my own.
… Continue reading


By rob mclennan,

make your mouth noun
shaped now make your hands
– Pattie McCarthy, Nulls


He vanished long enough ago that he’d most likely been forgotten or declared dead. Possibly both. He’d managed to completely step away from a home, mortgage and a good paying job. Had anyone noticed? Scattered relatives, perhaps. Most likely long dead, themselves. His sister. He knew his absence would have left few to bother asking, or seeking him out. There might have been rumours. A speck in the news, and then gone. … Continue reading