please advise stop [the rustle of a Sunday bundle of newspapers tucked under my father’s arm stop] by Rusty Morrison

the rustle of a Sunday bundle of newspapers tucked under my father’s arm stop
and no father walking toward me stop
on the branch only oak leaves reddening as wind ripens their talent for exodus stop

on the lawn a scatter of wrens head-down but tail-erect stop
no bringing back the other world though every silence sounds for it stop
soft hiss then only all the rattle of useless memory caught in the unwieldy bundle of his dying stop

where I’ve tied it stop
waiting for the proscenium that the warblers’ song might once again build around me stop
I purse my lips in an exaggerated exorcism of breath please advise

by Rusty Morrison
from the true keeps calm biding its story (Ahsahta Press)

Orchard in Fall by Nate Pritts

slow fields blink past                    orchard in fall                    the stream moves clear
slow moves in fields                    blink past stream fall                    the clear orchard
slow fall moves fields                    blink clear past stream                    in the orchard

orchard slow fall                    past moves in blink                    clear fields the stream
fall moves clear past                    slow stream in fields                    the orchard blink
the slow blink past                    stream clear in fall                    fields orchard moves

past moves slow blink                    in fields orchard                    fall the clear stream
blink slow past moves                    fall stream clear fields                    the orchard in
orchard in stream                    clear fall blink past                    moves slow the fields

in slow past blink                    orchard fields stream                    the clear fall moves
in fall slow blink                    the past moves clear                    orchard stream fields
slow stream moves past                    fields clear in fall                    orchard the blink

blink the orchard                    fields in slow stream                    past clear fall moves
the past moves blink                    orchard slow in                    stream fields clear fall
clear moves the stream                    fall in orchard                    past blink fields slow

by Nate Pritts

published in Dear Sir

as well as in his new chapbook, Descriptive Sketches

the photo was originally uploaded to flickr by amy allcock.

The Fringe of Symmetry

I found this videopoem through my friend Laura Mullen, who posted it on facebook. The video is inspired by the poem “Going West” by Maurice Gee. The video is sponsored by the New Zealand Book Council. Fasten your reader’s seat belt.


Credits: Film for NZ Book Council
Produced by Colenso BBDO and
Animated by Andersen M Studio

Fargo Bardo by Paula Cisewski

Fargo flood 2009 by glness via flickr

By sandbag

by flood

by fire and

by beetstink

by traincars

by offers

by youth

by wrinkledom

by hospital by

cowardice by

a slapdash collection

of ands by

a stalwart obsession

with carrion

birds by living

by living within

a set of

escape hatches by


by flood

by silence

by ricochet by

spores on the wind

by circus tent neighborship

by breathing

by motherhood

by fors and

by nors really

any conjunction

that sandbag

that flood

by witness by forgiveness by

forgetness by dreaming

by thoughtful love by

trainwreck love

by the luminosity

of the true nature

or even

by real dullness

of the spirit

hand me that sandbag

by the wine key

the flooding like clockwork

by poems about crossroads

by songs about crossroads

challenge that water

to a fistfight I

dare you I

am on a roll

and have just told

my typo keyboard

to fuck off

a river crests

by the corkscrew


not by songs about the luminosity

not by poems about the luminosity

sandbag atop sandbag

I don’t know about fate

but certainly

by accident

by northness

by entrapment

by vision

by death mostly

by some form

of death,

rebirth is

a real possibility.

But we could

be waiting here

awhile. Have we

prepared ourselves

for this waiting.

by Paula Cisewski

published in H_NGM_N

Fonder a Care Kept by Heidi Lynn Staples

I was barn. I was razed.

I was mot this flame with no’s sum else blue’s blame noir yearning down the house.

No, it was I and I blank I bandit blather that louse that
fiddle-dee-dee little lame chimera that came as the name yes different.

I wracked my refrain, that blousy souse.

I was bard. I was crazed.

I was dog girl’s shame.

So, I culled my maim. My maze read, you heave to rip rove your aim (she
knock-knocks my nows and raves my here a quickened tousle), spell your
dreams with a big and, and play for the game. I was har. I was phrase.

I was aroused by many’s uttered same.

by Heidi Lynn Staples

from her book Dog Girl (Ahsahta Press, 2009)

Messy hair by miss monster

photo by Jenny Gacy via flickr

[white spring] by Lisa Olstein

am working on a specimen so pale it is like staring at snow from the
bow of a ship in fog. I lose track of things—articulation of wing,
fineness of hair—as if the moth itself disappears, but remains as an
emptiness before me. Or, from its bleakness, the subtlest distinctions
suddenly increase: the slightest shade lighter in white begins to
breathe with a starkness that’s arresting and the very idea of color
terrifies. It has snowed and the evening is blue. The herders look like
buoys, like waders the water has gotten too deep around. They’ll have
to swim in to shore. Their horses are patient. They love to be led from
their stalls. They love to sharpen their teeth on the gate. They will
stand, knees locked, for hours.

by Lisa Olstein
from her book Lost Alphabet (Copper Canyon 2009)

published on


photo by Gaëtan Bourque from flickr

Anywhere in Particular by Heather Christle

I will leave this house     and go out into the
weather     there
are only so many ways to get out     I will use the window as a shield     and nothing can hurt
me     not rain     not migration     I need a truck     I need to drive
forever down the highway     carrying nothing     going out to meet the owls     hello owls     on a man-made hill     hello men     you dead men     beneath a separate
weather     and now
I am back in the truck
plain     I
could drive across Nebraska     and no one would notice     I don’t need to hide
at all anymore
something in the night sky changed     so slightly     I have to pay attention     and yes     their mouths are
ahead of the sound
there is no one to tell     I tell the truck     I tell Nebraska I am leaving     there are a million
ways out     one day
I will live on an island     all the time     I will send out a parcel     when the mail boat
arrives   look empty mail
boat     now you are

by Heather Christle

published in Octopus Magazine, Issue 12

Heather’s book, The Difficult Farm, will be published by Octopus Books later this year.