Other notable work by buckley and Angie Werren.


Regina Green-

in the kitchen the next morning

he tells her he’s leaving

and coffee spills
the toast burns
the tile floor like little landmines

and she
not knowing what to do next
continues scraping
scraping the blackest parts



today’s spanish word of the day is:
or to frown, purse the lips
and as i say the word to myself
that is exactly what i am doing
my tongue slipping
that lingual non-comformist
stiff and lazy to boot

o las palabras
my filthy american mouth cursing

where is the velvet romance
the headiness of the rolling r’s
i fare no better than a stutterer

and the girl behind the counter
her hola’s bright and cast about like seed
her loveliness the color of the aztec moon
she stands there
expectant hopeful
my bocadillas like tiny islands

i smile and manage gracias and
muy delicioso

she dances away
behind her trails
de nada
a winged acceptance of the tongue-tied girl



shelby wrote to save her life
and to the ones who say
poetry is a blind eye
she skims the table top
her body a stricken wave

do you know the chilean poet
the poet of the andes
his magnificent head a stanza of calm and fury
the finger landscape like a winding snake
his beloved pais

do you know the suicide girl
her heart like a rocked flower
her mouth drawn back in silent power
she fought for you

do you know the one wandering
a paramour waiting on a bench
the streets of greenwich village more a cinched waist
than a street of good-bye’s

and shelby smiled the way she does
her heart a little ruby casket
ask her anything
she’ll tell you what you want to hear


we know this place

if you were ever to love someone else
prefer their landscape over mine
think them more comely

and if i were to find a heart full of favor
under my pillow or laid out on my bed
like clothes ready for the day

were we both to awake as different people
strangers to each other
our hats hung on different pegs
our slippers like restless poets

then i would think i had woken up wrongly
or too early and you would consider going
down to the bar for one more drink

and hopefully and soon
we would find our old selves
the girl who squandered her good luck
and the boy who catches a silver bullet in his teeth
exchanging one for the other

and in an instant
like the deep scent from the pine trees
outside our window
the way the sun rides in through the laced
our comfortable coffee cups from the union craft show

this is what it must be like to weather a storm
rain and heat lightening and wind
and we with our hearts full of dew
you’ve come back
we both cry
soaked to the skin

we know this place
and laugh


Regina Green’s poems have appeared in The Human Genre Project, A Little Poetry- Voracious Verses, Cahoots Magazine, Breadcrumb Scabs, physiognomy in letters, and the on-line poetry blogs, Bolts of Silk, This Zine Will Save Your Life, Thirteen Myna Birds and a handful of stones. She is also published in Spiraling Volume 1 and Spiraling Nature, two collaborative Lulu pressed poetry compilations. Regina is a therapist living in Marietta, GA. You can find her at Red Bird Chronicles.




varicose veins

and here, the signs of age have
Troubled Me —
and here, i am not a girl
any more,
(i am 24)
a woman, burdened with the scars and veins,
not in the least responsible, boasting
a companion for a bed, selfsame pantlegs
primed to hem, a bosom that is sinking,
a life lived hidden in the secret that
i hate having an age,
i do not want to die.


truth or consequences, new mexico

barefoot to the store and crying, just a little
this a new bed in a new place
is not home.  the grass is juicy-ripe
the room is cool and silent
and the solitude is suffocating.
yet, i cannot sleep.  i have not slept
or stopped.  i saw the sun rise
in new mexico.

i saw it set in chafing desert arizona
where it was.  it ended in an argument.

they see my face and are kind.
a young gay boy with hippie decor offers
a hand for luggage; someone else
minds my dog tied to a lamppost while
i buy more cigarettes; the tramps
are quiet in the park
and do not bother me.

i think the song inside that has one word:
alone, alone, alone
is audible for miles.
they see this.  and it suits me best, i guess.


eden haus

things are static here,
under the cold hard moon,
while the raindrops fall.

the bedroom window serves as
a television and it is a show
on deer and rain.  beneath the curtain
it flickers, in silence.

we are forgetting the days.  this is not so bad,
except when someone says come tuesday at ten,
and then we remember again.  it hurts to feel
responsibility, because we are tuning out its death
like one of a friend.  when it resurfaces
we drink it away.  we
cry and cry.

things are stagnant here,
beneath the clotted moon,
as the day dawns grey
and the scene is the constant
pinprick flicker of rain


buckley lives in montana and likes to take photographs to show people that nature is actually beautiful.  she has had nothing published save for this and no chapbooks to her name, and passes the days writing and learning sciences.



Angie Werren-

ancient wing (archaeopertyx)

somewhere in my long ago      I crawl up through the brine

I shake my useless arms until
they grow hands and fingers that
can shape the senseless sounds
my prehistoric mouth utters

I paint them on cave walls
I carve them in stone
I wrap my reptilian brain in the wonder of papyrus

someday you will find me      trapped in a rock
a phoenix caught as it left the fire

you’ll touch the scales on my arms      you’ll find feathers


eight carbon atoms

she holds eight points of fire
and he      counts the atoms

which of these things is
combustible      which of these things
bursts into blue flame

what liquid ignites the illusion
and quivers with refracted light
what burns the silence of spectators

which intoxication of hydrocarbons
explodes through metal      stupefies
urges him to ignore the distortion

she hides chromatic aberrations

she says it’s magic     a flammable phantom
she tells him it is all just what he
wants      to believe

she holds eight points of fire
and he counts      the atoms


a three-legged chair

is an empty womb     weighing
a black hole in the ultrasound

is held in hands     the heft of wood
turned smooth and lacquered

is suppressed in silence     twisted
and splintered

is voiced on tremulous days
obvious     without glue



I thought the addition would be
simple     an expansion of my horizon
a release from captivity

just open the walls

the first bones were grey and smooth
a pleasant handful of wood     they
clinked and echoed     melodious

I thought they were beautiful

then my fingers crushed her ribcage
it broke with brittle sighs     disturbed
dust escaped in sad billows

I kept reaching
I kept pulling     until

I was mother and child
murmuring     winding the sheet
she was a prodigal daughter

hidden in the walls


Angie Werren lives and writes in a small house in Ohio. Her poems are in some lovely places, most recently Four and Twenty Poetry and right hand pointing. She keeps extra syllables in the silverware drawer.  Visit her poetry site smoke.