Poetry
Spring Poem
Word’s best dot a golden apple
In the sand of skies, box in hand
Her here with this soul at the pump
A derelict to the world he made being
Dapper, fat, alive, and shrieking.
My dense hurrah I missed it
In my bustle or my trestle (whatever gender)
Missing. That’s the fact––springing
From the forest of deeds in costume
Ready to be bitten as a busy architecture
Takes a breath from its host
And mimes a love in money.
Lines
No vernacular psychosis is a hideout.
Chenille shade dogs rule the junk planet.
The nest emanates from a superceded power,
Human Beings able to fly.
Steel strut bars and towering bolted
Triangles requited by the shape of time
When to be free was to be guilty.
Contributor
Cole HeinowitzCole Heinowitz lives in Brooklyn and Annandale-on-Hudson and teaches English Literature at Bard College. Her chapbook, Stunning in Muscle Hospital, came out from Detour Press in 2002, and her second chapbook, The Rubicon, was published by A Rest Press in 2007. Her poems can also be found in The Poker, Highway Robbery, 6X6, HOW2, Factorial!, and in the collection Free Radicals. “A Birthday for Francis,” a one-act play written with Jack Collom, was serialized in The American Drivel Review.
RECOMMENDED ARTICLES
I Run My Hand Over the Race
By Taney RonigerJUNE 2020 | Critics Page
The words in my title belong to Robert Irwin. I came across them years ago in Lawrence Weschler’s much-loved book of dialogues with the artist, and since then they’ve become something of a personal shibboleth. Referring to his technique for placing bets at the track (a second vocation in which he enjoyed great success), Irwin relayed that, after carefully studying the statistics for each horse, he would forget all the facts, close his eyes, and “run his hand over the race.” I don’t think I’ve encountered a better metaphor for tacit thinking: the kind of thinking we do unconsciously, without language, with and through our bodies.
Abi Andrews's The Word for Woman is Wilderness
By Yvonne C. GarrettJUNE 2019 | Books
Some years back a friend told me I had to see Sean Penn’s film Into the Wild (2007) based on Jon Krakauer’s biography of Christopher McCandless, a privileged young white man who gave up his worldly goods to journey into the Alaskan wilderness.
POEM (“popular fear…”)
By Simon PettetSEPT 2019 | Poetry
Simon Pettet is a long-time resident of New York's Lower East Side. His Collected Poems, HEARTH (from Talisman House) is essential reading. His most recent volume (from the same publishers) is AS A BEE
A Dream of Sand
by Iris Garcia Cuevas, translated from the Spanish by Diego GerardAPR 2019 | Fiction
It is not me. The woman lying with wide open legs, dressed in the ridiculous robe that ties with two strings around my back, it is not me. I have always been scared of needles.
