Second Person
By Patrick Mathieu You Who woo For narcissistic Return Regarding friend As toy To be manipulated You Competing Solely to prove You’re Better
By Patrick Mathieu You Who woo For narcissistic Return Regarding friend As toy To be manipulated You Competing Solely to prove You’re Better
By Allison Albino At last alone, she sinks into the leather chair, rests her head on her palm. Yawns, reaches for the jug of
By Kushal Poddar I have this anxiety over goldfish bowls filled with potpourri and only potpourri; I fail to scale this feeling. I feel nervous
By Bill Yarrow I’m complex. You’re complex. We’re all complex. Who gives a shit? Man’s fallen and he can’t get up. I consulted
By Bill Yarrow sure history has been here before we the clean-fingered citizens recognize that even as the clawing quiet gnaws at
By Karen Pittelman Most wild animals will avoid human contact. But the rat longs to come as close as it can. I knew a
By Karen Pittelman If I would mass instead of ache, assemble not erode, If this granular body, its weak granular needs could heat to
By Guillermo Filice Castro on the brink of diminuendo with a touch of rage that voice
By Nathan McClain there’s a bluebird, asleep, in the pokeweed, and we argue still— what’s pinched in its beak— a thread of red string, perhaps
By Cathy Linh Che In the car, phantom shadows. The moon was a sliver. The sun blared orange over the canyon, and I caught myself
By Stash Hempeck as we each silently steal forward, stoop to pick up our rock, heft the angular stone up and down in our
By Erika Dreifus with thanks to Steven M. Lowenstein My father’s parents were Germans, and they were Jews, and they were born long ago,
By Patricia Spears Jones What happens when you lose your taste For living things-a lover’s mouth The scent of her skin; his dark pubic hair
By Mike Stutzman Yes, yes, yes— the sandbags I have stacked, and the sheets of plywood nailed overlapping my storefront heart. I have made ready
By Bernadette McComish I am poured out like water, spilled onto the floor, soaked into wood. A terrible loneliness forces me to love a man
By Brie Huling There was no one here to tell me I was wrong. In taxidermy, you skin the animal first like removing the skin
You’ll find brilliant prose & poetry on tap in New York City at Von Bar at 3 Bleecker St. @ Bowery (take the 6 to Bleecker or the B, D, F, M to Broadway-Lafayette). Readings take place every third Sunday of the month. (Subject to change around the holidays.)
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