Tag: 2020 Winter Issue
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Featured Art: Christopher Woods
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“War Field” by Joshua Young
Joshua Young is the author of six collections, most recently, Psalms for the Wreckage (Plays Inverse, 2017) and the chapbook, Weekends of Sound: 764-Hero Mixtape (Madhouse Press, 2020). His novella, Little Galaxies, is forthcoming from Los Galesburg Press in 2020. Joshua…
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“Synoptic: In Red and Blue” by GTimothy Gordon
The Tale At Ali’Shan we witness what’s left of skeletal rare red cypress Nippon clear-cut an aeon ago.
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“The Morning After” by K. M. Huber
A hummingbird quivers near the open window— a brown violetear, Colibri delphinae, flashes glimpses of its emerald throat, dips into flowers—buries itself in a trembling bloom while I answer the phone.
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“One Art” by GTimothy Gordon
… something beyond themselves, beyond words. -Celan- There’s a scent that can’t be defined like breathless painting, music, dance unplowed yet into sentient fields, graphic grey-mists hovering water, that won’t be read or turned to tongue
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“Not Barcelona” by Jill Bronfman
Gaudí tapped me on the shoulder in the nearly-finished Casa Batlló and asked me if I liked the center atrium. Having been raised in a farmer’s stucco house, I thought I’d say it was beautiful. Artists always seek beauty, right? Before I could remember how to say beautiful in Catalan, he started up again about…
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“Familiar” by Jill Bronfman
Enter La Basílica de la Sagrada Família Past the glories of art and color and light There is a tower It is dark inside, and the path is difficult
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“Here, After” by Doris Ferleger
I am writing to tell you what it was like for me the days I sat beside you, holding the phone on speaker
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“Fugitives” by Bruce Robinson
Absconded, in the dead of the heat just two nights ago, enamored of darkness, two unremarkable syllables, neither one a word or capable of turning a word
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“Flare Stack Eden” by Katherine Hoerth
You can smell it like a snake, from miles away— this Eden made of benzene, naphthalene and gasoline. The smokestack garden never rests; it works through day and night like any forest does. It turns the blood of earth into the fuel that makes it sing this dusk chorus of whistles, bells, and whooshing flame.