..:: CONTENTS ::..

..:: POETRY ::..
Adam Fieled
  Sarah Israel
Johannes Finke
  Documents etc. do not balance out
  Hardcore angel
  Recording, Melancholy
Dan Fisher
  from Fugue Report
Jenny Gillespie
  Burn
  Personal Forest
Thomas Hibbard
  KOURASAN
  BAD GUY
  RUBBLE
Claudia Keelan
  Little Elegies (Vietnam) 
  Little Elegies (cummingsworth)
  Little Elegies (Self and Other)
David Krump
  The Nine Day Ricochet
  Backsling in the Hickories
  C(harm
Tom Leonard
  suite On the Page
Christopher Mulrooney
  Continental System
Rochelle Ratner
  Date-a-Dog
  Jealous Lover Program Creator Is Indicted
  MUTT AND JEFF AT ALCATRAZ
  Testing
  California Inmate Seeks Release of Stuffed Dog
  Piggy Banks
Dennis Somera
  Earl Lee s. alvation jane=Paterson's curse s.v. Paterson;
  sweet ana lack to es
  Pleas
Stephanie Young
  UPPER MODERATION
  IN TWENTY DAYS I WILL BE THIRTY

..:: PROSE ::..
Douglas Cole
  Ghost
Laura Davis
  Touched
Mandy Kalish
  On the Fourth Pull
William Moor
  Four Robot Recognitions

..:: REVIEWS ::..
Jeremy James Thompson
  Joan Retallack, Memnoir
Sarah Trott
  Stephanie Young, Telling the Future Off
Sara Wintz
  Various, lunapark 0,10

..:: ETC ::..
  Contributor's Notes
  Legals
 

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
  Volume I, Issue I
  Volume I, Issue II
  Volume II, Issue I

 


Backsling in the Hickories
David Krump

     

Among the poorer possibilities:
                             
“Hum.”
Are you fucking crazy, Tulip?
                             
Know what they would do to us?
In the garden of all that is and is
                             
it is almost too much so so much
for the cattail dream and the banks  
                              where we dried like drowned children in sun
and there were finally flies remarking sadly
                             
and for once remarkable fires in our mouths.

The soul and then the backsling? Happy harps,
give me no more lady, no more moth that mothers         
blackbirds on fire in the hickories and ghosts that won’t be tethered
to the (hell with) you and the high tide you rode in on.

When you were the wind
                              
beating apart apples and
the sky was your eye
                 
(OF)
     
All things to happen
                 
in a hotel bathroom
     
sunlight lightly tapping
                             
(SINCE)
                 
I’ve been driving days
      
                        into night’s corral, it seems
                 
only the landscape changes
                                        
(NOW)

Wash my face my elm ash what’s that.
Companion a sky does to and does.

I live my fiction: mornings when nothing matters:
                 
vespers and missives and desperate miles in the dusk.
The heart guns and guns.   I stumbled into being,
I might as well stumble through it.

 

//   Advance   //