Literary Editor: Huascar Medina
Poet Laureate of Kansas


1000 Words

1000 Words

Ben is thirty-four and a tattoo artist known for his lettering. People are always surprised when they first meet him. They scan his blank skin – his clear arms and neck, not a tattoo in sight. “Worse than a bald hair stylist,” Ben always says, and a courteous laughter pushes the moment along. Works every time. He’s six-foot. Dark-haired. Fit. Non-smoker. Social drinker. Conscious eater but not...

The Lot's Fall


Beyond the winter swimming pool where the tarp caves in, its blue palm full of snow, is the matted grass and weed lot I am given each day at my kitchen sink window. But beyond that, where the grass falls suddenly, as if by earthquake or men with shovels, runs a little river of moon-gray water. This is where I bend and sway forward on my ankles and the sparse straggled trees hold chattering...

Summer Warbler: Showano, Wisconsin


Dusk. After love
we walk a teetering balance
of summer twilight.
A tiny
dull-lemon warbler
silhouetted atop a pole
wheezes a melody—
tiny fluff
against sky
blowing wind
into a pipe organ
of passion.
Fragile bones carry
ligaments and musculature,
nearly transparent
yet throbbings of sound
pour through the air,
touch our innermost ears—
almost another lover
moving within, sweet
blood warming again.

The Saucer


I just missed it. Just caught a glimpse of it, stretch the way I breathe out across the day. “I saw a tail dragging, leaving spaces burning in the blue; a saucer crossing my lines of view.” “It pulled over across the grid, and dipped a bit as if to tell me what to say, then out like long and fast It dropped behind the sun.” But just caught a glimpse of this saucer, burning...

The Jackalope


I have never seen
the crossbreed of legend,
except in artwork,
postcards from Kansas,
ashtrays in roadhouses,
bars and malls.
But I know she survives
by hiding in brome,
scanning the flat
land for predators.
I have wandered alone
on dusty backroads
and railroad tracks,
smelling her stench
in the larkspur.

[history becomes fate when]

Things Come On

history becomes fate when it’s over with no more disjunct than this world A gateway timeout occurred The server / is unreachable History abounds a keeling curve this starts to be how it gets to keening love filters   :   red void Molly’s mussels live-o while she dies-o — that’s the point, see? _                       A space is a character too One remembers that, if not what The space is more...

Lisa's Flying Electric Piano


Her full-sized electric piano flew out of my father’s pick up truck. I was driving. Somehow, the base detached from the keyboard, and it all went flying into the busy intersection of 47th St / Main in KC on Saint Patrick’s Day. No one hit it, and Lisa said, “Let’s just throw it in this dumpster,” when we had carried it out of the road. “No,” I said...

The Other Side of the Tracks

Railroad Tracks

I stand alone on the subway platform four days after Racquel’s burial, unshaven, and cigarette burns in the cuffs of the crumpled silver button-down shirt I put on the morning of her funeral. I toss my phone down into the tracks and check to see if the lights are making the corner down the tunnel. My destination isn’t on the color-coded map stretched along the wall on the other side of the tracks...

A Girl's Best Friend


The spine is worn and cracked with love, proudly displayed atop my cabinet of wine glasses, always an arm’s reach away. Greg Fox’s cookbook “FRESH: recipes from RowHouse” [self published, 2012] has been like a best girlfriend to me: inspirational, challenging, fun and always there exactly when needed, during some personal, pivotal life moments. Joyful after a successful...

– sponsored love-


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