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The Garden of William Burroughs

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Garden

for Tom King by Denise Low Behind a hedge, poison ivy pokes three-fingered mitts through the orgone box. The backyard lot deepens into tangled sumac stems and wilted brown fuzz of asters. By the kitchen door a pond nurtures algae scum. Arrowroot leaves are hatchets. Hidden outside his window lies a smaller pond, cattails at edges and moon-round, a pool he saw nights before sleep. A pool where he...

Dick Dale Cures The ‘Rona

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Kansas Is Lit

Originally published in The Rye Whiskey Review – online poetry ‘zineAppeared in the 2020 anthology Thought for Food from South Broadway Press FOR JASON VIVONE Let’s just say you had a meltdown in the grocery store because your hands are so dry from washing and sanitizing that you can’t open the plastic produce bags and your glasses are fogging up from your own breath escaping through the...

State Bird of Kansas

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Meadowlark

by George Paris Meadowlark intent on being   heard in spite of wind,   rises from modest nest   singing the prairie dry.   Unaware of election   to avian poet laureate,   makes allegro music,   few notes floating   in tangled air   disappearing in oblivion.   The lark composes   meadow sweetness   in counterpoint to   rattlesnake...

The Very Edge

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The Very Edge Poems

Join Flying Ketchup Press as it releases its first collection of international voices in poetry. “The Very Edge” is an intense collection of urgent and inspiring poetry that brings together writers in English, Spanish, and French. It features New York poet, Anne Whitehouse, and Kansas Poet Laureate, Huascar Medina. Co-edited by Polly Alice McCann and Araceli Esparza. Take a journey...

1000 Words

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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

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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

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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

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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...

– sponsored love-

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