Neither Alpaha nor Omega by Jon Catron

I slip farther into the Abyss;
my eyes fixed in a downward gaze, mesmerized in comforting horror,
that is but sparsely broken by glances only to the cherubim in my arms.

Beatific.

Glorious.

Her perfect eyes, eternally cast upward toward her Heavenly Father,
do not see me.

My touch taints her. My hands, soiled and befouled,
smear and stain her deep. But still she raises her voice to the holy ghost,
that heavenly phantasm,
in praise and longing.

AVI!

But my trajectory, my tragedy, is prophecy.


And there has never been any other choice, for either of us.

Unhipsterish Earnestness by Greg Santos

i do not like to write my poems using only lowercase letters

i feel like i am not cynical or hip enough to do so

the poets who write like this are way cooler than i am

If I wrote like them I would be like that creepy old guy

Who crashes a dive bar where all the cool college kids hang out

And I would be standing around all uncomfortable and self-conscious

With the wrong kind of alcoholic drink cradled unironically in my hand

And trying hard not to wince too much at the unrecognizable music

And I would secretly be hoping that Dave Matthews Band or Coldplay were playing instead.

Even though I am not that much older than they are but just old enough

To realize my tucked-in collared shirt and boot-cut jeans are too earnest and sincere

And sincerity is a big no-no lest I be trying to say something meaningful

And the world is too fucked up to write about love and the soul or the heart

And even swearing in the last line seems forced because I never swear in real life

And seeing it written down makes me regret I put that in the poem in the first place

But I will not remove it because it gives the poem street cred

And I am really dying for some street cred right now.

I feel old.

I will take anything I can fucking get.

just a poem by steve calamars

a duet



hemingway played

a 12-gauge

like a trumpet



lips wrapped

around the barrel

cheeks inflated

like dizzy gillespie



he blew a solo

of buckshot and

brain-parts all over

empty white walls



times have changed

but not really all that much



i now cling to a glock

instead of a shotgun



i punch the keys

of a laptop

instead of a

typewriter



i too strive for

sparse prose and

poems clean as

erector-sets



and i routinely

squeeze the trigger

of an empty gun



perfecting my technique

and warming up

my fingers



preparing to

close my eyes

gather my will

and play a duet



menacing as a bull fight—