Today’s choice
Previous poems
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Art Exhibit
I hear the roar of
the ocean. I hear
a series of shrieks
and long screams.
An eventual lull
comes. My ears
are an abstraction.
I don’t know what
to tell you. Last
night a spider made
its way inside my
ear. It crawled out
with fragments of
wax. I hear the
possibilities of the
thought of a spider,
of a stranger, but
I am unsure of it.
My ear is a triangle.
I hear coughing sounds.
I hear myself laugh,
the grinding of teeth,
the tracing of circles.
My ear is a square.
These are my dreams.
I’m an art exhibit
with wounds I unstitch.
Soon my time will come.
Quick, turn off the lights.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico, lives in California, and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Fixator Press, Ink, Sweat, and Tears, Lothlorien Poetry Review, and Oddball Magazine. His latest poetry book, Make the Water Laugh, was published by Rogue Wolf Press.
Julian Bishop
He emerges at nightfall, lights a solitary votive candle//
prostrates himself at her scuffed toes.
Jon Miller
Haul down the ladder and you’re in
under a skylight casting a blue dream.
Philip Gross
This is the song of the cells’
soft throb, the quivering coherences,
their shuffling the profit and loss
of life, to have and to hold.
Jenny Hope
No man can hold me.
See –
I blur the line between days . . .
Damaris West
In the circle
of its trees
the lochan shines
midnight silk.
B. Anne Adriaens
symptoms she is aggregate concrete and grit held together in a human shape lying on her side knees drawn up flesh tensing to stone and tendons in flames the weight of her body pressed into the mattress leaves a shallow hollow once she’s gone a...
Martin Potter
glimmer blades
the field’s lightly fogged
grass green
Moira McPartlin
Outside the Berber tent
the poet and I contemplate
the boundless Sahara sky.
Matthew James Friday
We totem our empires with the raptor,
weave into flags, fix on coins
but what of the victims?
How come no one ever glories the fish . . .