You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October 2008.


Other notable works by Robert Arthur Reeves and Sari Krosinsky.


Kenneth P. Gurney-


She fills an old wooden washtub
one bucket at a time,
uses soap to wash away the blues.
Her thin, white cotton dress
spots with water splashed,
retains grease stains from cooking
over the past decade.
The birds in the branches
fail to repair her sad song,
replace the red thread
stitching the white fabric,
replace the missing button
that exposes the inner curve
of her breasts.

His muddy return deepens blue to indigo.
His steady rain of kisses leads to protests,
to a new tear in her fabric,
another button popped and rolling
across the slatted floor.



A plate slips from my hands,
shatters on the kitchen floor.

Fumbled car keys fall from my fingers
stick in the asphalt.

My first two lessons
on letting go of the dead.



The extraordinary arrived yesterday
at two-forty-seven p. m., but it was not
anything special, just an overflow
of ordinary backing up into the house:
just more shit to clean up
as soon as I collect the mop and bucket.



You are the innocent water
I lift from the stream, drink—

which is a kiss of sorts
that makes your body writhe,

twist along the red clay,
the smooth stones,

the long course of gravity,
evaporation, clouds.

I sink my hands into you, again,
in an effort to slake my thirst,

try to separate you from yourself,
adjurn my needs, but you

slip through my fingers, carry
away essential oils, wither

fingerprints, as you speak
in soothing tongues.

And I think, Enough of metaphors,
so I can feel the clear flow

of your rhythm as we fuck,
leave the grave behind

as we lose ourselves to the heat
of deliberate hands.



I won’t wear a blue wig,
bustier, or fish nets for you, baby
she practices with the mirror,
unconsciously touches her vulva
in the pattern of a chess opening—
queen’s gambit declined.

The bloom of small flowers
uncorked from a sculpted bottle
delegates oil to her dry skin.

But the oven’s baking bread
overpowers her mouth—
saliva hangs at the corner of a lip,
overtly full, plump in its wetness
before the fall, the long silver sting
that deflects off her nipple,
moistens her bare toe.

She pulls up the bib to her overalls,
snaps it into place, decides chewing
a sprig of grass is too cliche,
knows the curve of her breast
touched by blue denim is a rainbow
promising treasure at the end
of its arc.


Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA. He produces the poetry website Origami Condom, hikes the desert and foothills trails, studies the American Civil War, plays softball when in season.



Robert Arthur Reeves-

After Yardwork

Taut swelter in the worked limbs
sublimates all the weary meanings.
I can hardly see the mountain silhouette
through the risen green
but know its dense waiting.
Push your streets away,
city of my overflow.
You snag me on your spikes
but I have the backstroker’s arrogance,
smell the way back to the ocean
this desert was,
it crawls off the brown of my skin.



If I call you a sonofabitch
it’s because I don’t know you.
(You’d think.) It’s chicken & egg,
my insomnia & flat pillow soaked
by my colorless fierce head. To
have the perfect skill but the
incorrect nervous system to play the violin,
how will I weigh that against the sacks of living bones
I tote beneath my sugared hide?
You inflicted something at a corner,
a station of your own cross,
that earned you a little mental spit,
your car anyway. (Didn’t see you.)
Love must be the unbelievable power
to bring someone into focus
across inches, in the middle of the night,
who welcomes you enough to dream & snore
beside your writhing.
Then what price the lamebrain turn signal,
the scalp ballooning sweat?



Without the hope of being frankly squashed
in a neat way, as if God wanted me to diet
or go to restaurant school, the bubble
that aims its talon end at my mouth
contains a dark Gothic or Uncial, too smeared
to read on this cheap comic page. Soon
I’ll defeat the need to be of importance,
a nozzle you have to tilt straight down
to get any whip cream on your tart.


Robert Arthur Reeves lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico and has been writing poetry for more than forty years. Some recent publications include poems in The Chaffin Journal, Skidrow Penthouse, and Fulcrum.



Sari Krosinsky-

The Other Woman
after The Little Mermaid

After the vows, after the prince slept
rocked like a baby in the cradle
of the ship, I stumbled to the deck,
my stomach rolling with the sea.
What I saw:
The silent girl
at the prow. Moon catching
her hair, her dagger. Plunge
through the air, no splash
to mark her body slicing
the water. White slick of foam.
Then nothing.
Oh, I knew why
she jumped. It’s the prince
who needed words.
I saw how her feet faltered,
caught in his undertow.
What could I do?
His love was never mine
to give.
Years gone by,
still he speaks of her voice
like the music of waves,
the flash of fins, dark water
closing behind a pale shoulder
like a shut door.
I order his meals,
embroider his cloaks. Would she
envy me? None of us will hear
the notes we strained for.
When it mattered, none of us
could sing.


In a Jesuit dorm, an existentialist contemplates God

She stumbles to the basement to talk theology
in her pjs. She sinks into a beaten corner
of the couch, sips cocoa from a chipped mug.

Twenty minutes, she’ll be saying something clever
about the Wager, maybe how it only works
if you know which religion to bet on, which fate

to avoid. She never liked the thought of heaven anyway,
never could picture herself inside that perfect circle.
Maybe she’ll say when she plays with God, the dice

are always loaded. It’s her personal mission,
shocking the Catholics. She licks the mug’s jagged lip.
She has no use for any God who prefers unbroken clay.


Artemis, a Modern Hunting Fable

waxing moon

Bow and quiver propped against the bar
between us, she tells me to get her a whiskey,
no rocks. I tongue the salt on my finger
to keep my mouth busy. What can I say
to a woman who’s known everything she wanted
since toddlerhood? I’ve enough trouble
deciding whether I’ve had enough tequila.

Some schmuck palms her waist, says,
“What’s a goddess like you doing in a dump like this?”
“Waiting to give your cat a treat,” she says
and turns him to a gerbil. “No insult worse
than being mistaken for what you are.”

Her face reflects like a moon trapped
in whiskey. My image in her eye
is stag, boar—something wild enough
to chase. I know she’s the hunter
in any relationship. I know what that makes me.

full moon

I finger the row of self help books
in search of a schmuck’s guide
to job hunting. “What you people
call hunting these days,” Artemis says,
wrinkling her nose at the thought
or the used book formaldehyde.

The books tell me what I already know,
what she can’t comprehend—the stealth
required, the credentials dropped
like decoys, the camouflage of pressed suit
and perma-smile, and never letting on
how you’d rather have that smile
chewed off your face by your own dogs.

What can a goddess know of a hunt
where the prey has all the power?

waning moon

Swirling a pinky in her grasshopper,
she tells me about her brother,
how she never sees him
since he moved to the ’burbs.

I can imagine Apollo
lighting the barbeque
with bare breath, telling the kids,
“When I was your age,

you could get a whole cow
for one prophecy.”
Artemis sucks green froth
from her finger. “I can’t remember

the last time we had a good massacre
together,” she says. We’re old virgins,
I think, if refusing to grow up
is a kind of virginity. If I could talk,

I’d tell her I know about brothers.
Though we miss the nights
talking Star Wars and singing along
to Weird Al, we wayward sisters

need them to keep the coals burning
so we can keep chasing lions.

new moon

In the end, I’m not worth the price of a good arrow.

Because ’til now, she’s done all the talking
because light licks her naked lips
because I’m another clown juggling shot glasses
because Earth stains her face like a lunar eclipse
because I’ve forgotten I’m talking to a goddess
because I remembered
I say, “Wanna fuck?”

Without even a yawn, she downs her drink,
slips off the barstool. The door shuts
with a pfff behind her. She’s taken the air
from the room. She’s gone.


Sari Krosinsky received an MA in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. Her poems have appeared in the American Poetry Journal, Arsenic Lobster, Pebble Lake Review, Verse Daily and others. She edits Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction.




Editor, Lisa Zaran

ISSN: 1095-732x

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2007

January - Roger Humes
February - Jimmy Santiago Baca
March - Graham Burchell
April - Ruth Daigon
May - Anne Fraser
June - Corey Mesler
July - Scott Malby
August - James Keane
September - Maurice Oliver
October - Robert Pinsky
November - Louis Daniel Brodsky
December - Bill Duvall

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2008

January - Kelley White
February - L. Ward Abel
March - Maura Stanton
April - Dr. Charles Frederickson
May - Peter Magliocco
June - Penny Harter
July - Gary Beck
August - Jéanpaul Ferro
September - Fish and Shushan
October - Kenneth Gurney
November - John Gallaher
December - Carmen Alexandra

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2009

January - Karen Rigby
February - A.D. Winans
March - Donald Illich
April - Stephen Ferreira
May - Tracee Coleman
June - Ernest Williamson
July - Sally Van Doren
August - Nanette Rayman Rivera
September - Gianina Opris
October - Judson Mitcham
November - Joel Solonche
December - Peycho Kanev

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2010

January - Louis Gallo
February - Buxton Wells
March - Labi Siffre
April - Regina Green
May - Howard Good
June - Carol Lynn Grellas
July - William Doreski
August - Sari Krosinsky
September - Ben Nardolilli
October - James Piatt
November - Robert Lietz
December - John Grey

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2011

January - Robert Philbin
February - iolanda scripca
March - Tad Richards
April - Katie Kopin
May - Jacob Newberry
June - George Moore
July - Rae Spencer
August - Jim Richards
September - Antonia Clark
October - Tannen Dell
November - Christina Matthews
December - Charles Clifford Brooks III

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2012

January - Anniversary Issue
February - Jim Davis
March - Ivy Page
April - Maurice Oliver
May - Lori Desrosiers
June - Ray Sharp
July - Nathan Prince
August - Robert Klein Engler
September - Jenn Monroe
October - John Grey
November - Andrea Potos
December - Christina M. Rau

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2013

January - Maria Luisa Arroyo
February - Journal on haitus

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2014

April - Rebirth
May - Timothy Walsh
June - Brian Fanelli
July - Carol Smallwood
August - Elizabeth P. Glixman
September - Sally Van Doren
October - Sherry O'Keefe
November - Robert McDonald
December - Gerry McFarland

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2015

January - James Keane
February - Liza Hyatt
March - Joseph Reich
April - Charles Thielman
May - Norbert Krapf
June - Lynne Knight
July - Sarah Brown Weitzman
August - Tom Montag
September - Susan Palmer
October - Holly Day
November - A.J. Huffman
December - Tom Pescatore

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2016

January - Richard Perin
February - Linne Ebbrecht
March - Sheri Vandermolen
April - Molly Cappiello
May - Caleb Coy
June - Paul Lubenkov
July - Domenic Scopa
August - Adam Phillips
September - Timothy Gager
October - Bruce Lader
November - Holly Day
December - Al Rocheleau

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2017

January - Robert Lietz
February - Jocelyn Heaney
March - David Brinkman
April - Lana Bella
May - Kaitlyn O'Malley
June - Ruth Kessler
July - Chanel Brenner
August - Darren Demaree
September - George Moore
October - Joshua Medsker
November - Ralph Monday
December - Howie Good

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2018

January – Simon Perchik
February – Julia Travers
March-June – Journal on hiatus
July – Simon Perchik
August – Hiram Larew
September – Kevin Casey
October – Ditta Baron Hoeber
November – EG Ted Davis


Image of bird by contemporary artist, Courtney Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this journal may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the copyright owner/author. Any unauthorized use is strictly prohibited.