Poetry

“Hamlet’s Solilwocky,” by Tucker Lieberman

Apr 20th, 2017 | By

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Felt dread of something after death—
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Long life—To die, to sleep—No more—
And by a sleep to say we end



“Never Give Up, Poem,” by JD DeHart

Apr 20th, 2017 | By

someone will take you, poem
don’t give up
keep fighting the good fight
chin up



“We, humans,” by Nathaniel Sverlow

Apr 20th, 2017 | By

sex with coworkers
is not recommended



“He Considers Dating a Ballerina,” by J.P. Celia

Apr 20th, 2017 | By

He imagines moving to kiss her
And her pirouetting away,
Not knowing if she’s compelled to practice
At that very impractical instant, or attempting to play,



“The Wife Of,” by Annette LeBox

Apr 20th, 2017 | By

The wife of a goat is a goatee, a bearded lady in the circus, three bristly hairs on her chinny chin chin, trimmed and smoothed into a lively point, making the point that hair defines gender, sort of.



“The Bright Side,” by Mary F. Lee

Dec 20th, 2016 | By

Medusa turned every one of her boyfriends into stone
yet still found that her physical relationships with them
were deeply satisfying and lasted for hours.
“Such a hard on!” she exclaimed to the Gorgons.



“No Title (on purpose),” by Matt Kolbet

Dec 20th, 2016 | By

As Charles jumped from atop the building,
he yelled like a native (which is to say he
made a noise as often depicted in the
media of Western countries (clearly
an artificial division, unfairly favoring
one side with false criteria of culture)
though natives surely had their own
reasons to yell, just not—perhaps—
jumping from buildings).



“How to Write a Good Book,” by Cole Bellamy

Dec 20th, 2016 | By

First take a bath
A long bath.
Sit in the tub with your phone and
Send a text message
To someone you’ve never kissed
But would like to kiss.
Tell them you’re going to write today.



“New Pantheon,” by Mickey Kulp

Dec 20th, 2016 | By

The hippie gods of tree and field
gave way to an elaborate telenovela
of scheming olympians
which gave way to The One
that nobody can agree on.



“The End of the World Comedy Roast,” by CL Bledsoe and Michael Gushue

Dec 20th, 2016 | By

When the world ends, it will end in squirrels.
The sun will warm our bald spots, and the wind
will blow the stench of our failures into someone
else’s kitchen. No more being sad about the price
of acorns. No more hollow trees filled with someone
else’s nuts.