Ode to Anal by David Kruger

See, the light; the angled pink
of any day beyond the hills.

See, the first flit of the first flight.
Curious engine of cuticled lift

that whirls circuitous. Here, moods
of carnival and the openly carnal.

See, the insert but lightly.
See, math if half

a parabola sans apogee. Spare
the apology. If digitate,

see the favorable parable,
you piggy on the pork

you pillow bite for
The butte of it. The blueshift

of wounds sewing inward
with car time’s carnations,

the rhododendron rodeo to azalea
and allium. See, nosegay

for small bouquet. See, faux zebra,
hoax mink, the tiger,

and supplicant lynx. There
are no strangers only halos.

Laughter and War by David Kruger

Ask me about my howling
Weekend in a stranger’s bed.

Or what fleshed in morning—
What, hung like a malady—

The horizons held
Concordantly in la-ti-das—

In the hangovers
And the congress of all he does.

Ask me to leave
But to be left so dangerous

And felled like a dog
With a jarring woof

Or when passing
Old oaks on old roads,

Ask me why
Extinction is a coming

Of age. Or if I’ve had enough,
But never ask how much.

Maniac by Eileen G'Sell

Blue void. Dirty feet. A fast
friend, a foundling.

There are a thousand ways to lose
and a million ways to win.

Follow me, my heavy case of 
out-of-order knowledge, 

the past its awful beauty
no more awful than before,

run ahead and dream it is not
possible to catch you.

There are 65 words for true
and fewer words for always.

Because you are legitimate
I cannot love you gently.

Because you are forever
so far off, I flip the page.

Party Weather Sonnet by Alyssa Perry

Secret long since ceased to be discrete,            

how can I break my bread, divvy miraculous the loaf of you? 

I’d as lief inoculate my eyeball with thistle;

as importune the stately, dour moon (no one really wishes to).

Give good fortune a chance to fend for itself. Repeal the whistle

I let loose too far, too shrilly-true for mute, 

ay me! to stop its carry? Unbecoming.  

Dropped, ne’er slacking, note, tally

forth to one I’d take to being two’d to: 
If you want what it is I won’t call 

by a name, I’ll hold off this prunch-dunk beagling.    

Rub: this: A wisp or a whip or this will he, nill he 

‘s never enough for me. I’m batter

up an’ atcha, no Caesar’s hart-murmur hinders, heck, hell!:

Wholly of holies, evergreen, prorogued, at-not-to-be sneezed, wherefore

waffling? These (touch ‘em) my imputations. I haste  

offstage to where—if luv—what’s foraged oughtn’t go to waste. 

Arturo Finito by Alyssa Perry

Uncanny splintered was Arturo Finito;

    Arturo Finito made for unprocessible drift. All jargons

bowled to the strait’s boundless bunk.

    Sound sad? What we mean is this: One Arturo

flakes into a million Finitos. He’s a cake of

    soap. He’s neato. Our dad. Not one of us uniquely

feeling. We’re crowded, pinched

    at the presence of our Father Arturo.

Had many sons, and many sons had

    none. We had been had. I say we keep

being born, and next bearing the born.

    Opie Griffith “ain’t got no ma.” Nor we.              

What can we make of it? Present’s past due.

    We have ourself. Turn out your coat, Arturo Finitio;

Artur, Da-aa-aad, we gotta obtain

our succor. A rest. Legions of us. We suffer                          

    the succotash, and eat it, in our

drovy heaps, our dog cafeteria. The more likenesses,

    the less we like. Today’s 

baby nine thousand ninety sixth’s birthday. We think

    we’ll call him Rubeus. Rube-let.

When will my guest of honor his high chair take?

    Papa, enough. Let mange overwhelm cradles.

Already there is too much owed between us.

    No more innocents. We won’t permit it.

It is impossible to be finished, he says of the words,

    that is, world, laughing, dead

of the words. Finito. Zilch. Neytch. Gawne.

    But not Arturo. Arturo stays to cook supper.

Finito ad infinitum. From ultra, a voice:

    Ultra ultra. Beyond beyond is

what I ask you, Pops: We want to arrive

    in a present. We want to be it.

I am on a doorstep, stopped. My brothers

    cascade across my shoulders,

breaking in waves, waves—I have no shoulders.

    Who will carry these children?

Who can manage to love them: inquiries,

    snotty lips, language? Handrails?

Praise finitude. Praise the

    That’s enough. Art—which of us would

have been enough for you? Who serves? And where

    do you get all these teenagers? 

As seen in these, multiplying, chain-gang,

    infinitizing, redolent and

slappy-handed, unrelinquishers, all

    Arturo’s many sons. I am one of them,

and so are you. Chin up. How like

    must it feel to be vulpes vulpes, each

disyllable swerving back on its word,

    chasing its tail? A bird in the bush?  It never

cancels. Cold-skinned fox, hasty rust, blood sun,

    I know you are, but what am I?

A dervish-muff, melty throat. Continuing.

    Dinner‘s been served. Seeking the sought-after

cave, Arturo commands his own final

    mazurka, bouncing from catacombs.

It won’t be last. So let’s just praise the

    larder. Left right, left right. Sound off.

Dad? Da. Don’t let’s wake.