chris ransick
poem for your shoes
a poor attempt to find fearís edge and/tear it away, to name it so I can know it.

the angry man eats lunch alone
I know someone is dying somewhere/this morning, struggling to breathe/in a sunny room,


3 QUESTIONS WITH CHRIS RANSICK
poetry and mass media


luc simonic
the widow's boudoir
rain or shine/my god,/she sallied forth alone

holly in her imagination
soft colors thin hips flax hair she/pounded holly's head into the wall on/and on it took three hours to finish.

eating cake with my muse
i set my sights/Out to do things to you


judy wolf
things i miss
All we did is make out and kiss in his truck at the park and fuck in the backseat


delia tratorria
pure in winter hips
I am cradled in the hammock of her pelvis./She curls, like the cup of my ear.

revenue
These are the lies you told yourself instead of dreaming./Leisure suits manufacture and yield less restraint than all/the fires shrinking for lack of proper nutrition.


jane chuvala
we could be sisters
i see me and know you,/and know that we are the same.