May 11, 2017 | Poetry
from HOW TO WRITE A LOVE POEM IN A TIME OF WAR
Kristy Bowen
Sometimes I say novels ruined me in the way they ruin all young bookish girls, slowly and tenderly rotting out the light and making room for the sweet dark.
May 10, 2017 | Fiction
The Coming
Siobhan Welch
And tbh, I seriously doubt Jesus wants me to die a virgin.
May 9, 2017 | Fiction
My Dying Neighbor Stole Our Pie
Alex Schuman
You’re always told to do the right thing and stand-up to evil, but can a, old dying woman who lies about being offered pie constitute as evil? I thought yes.
May 9, 2017 | Interview
Daytime Is The Greatest: An Interview with Bud Smith and Rae Buleri
Elle Nash
I read the first half of Dust Bunny City (Disorder Press, 2017) at a party, while I was sober. Men were playing darts, making tiny dart holes in the rented apartment walls. I watched them throw darts and cheer and try to teach me how to play, and then drunkenly play with the dogs in the house and then went back to my reading.
Pretty Potion
Jen Palmares Meadows
In the afternoons, I stripped off my boyish clothing and watched back to back episodes of Saved by the Bell, feeding my unhealthy obsession for Kelly KAPOWski. The perky brunette with her slim ankles and come-hither hair tosses was the ultimate teenage bombshell.
Him Hiccup, Me Yawn
Florence Gonsalves
“Fine, but I get full custody of the mustache,” I said, once we’d finished dividing up all of our things: him Chipotle, me The Red Hot Chili Peppers, him macramé, me black clothing.
Dirty Socks
Sean Higgins
Danielson sells his dirty socks to perverts on the internet.
Five Poems
Bud Smith
Remember, there’s a light emitting from you and it's not just your cellphone. / The Internet is a scorched wasteland. / But you've walked through worse places / on your way to work.
Jackalope Run
CJ Hauser
She’s going to be an artist, he told your parents, and he wasn’t wrong, even if you couldn’t hack it in New York.
The Sculptor
Ryan K. Jory
Mom says new husbands are like circus peanuts. They go stale after a few weeks, and she wonders, Why the hell do I keep buying these things? I don’t even like them.
Open Your Heart
Erika Kleinman
When we first met in the early ‘90s, we had stage names. She went by Kali and I went by Olivia.
Strawberry Is Learning To Fly
Mariya Poe
Who says islands needs water? he asked. Mine is a tree island. It’s something surrounded by something different.
Relisted
Josh Olsen
For the third time in as many months, I received an automated email from ebay, stating, “An item you’ve been watching has been relisted.”
Three Strikes
Anthony Michael Morena
1. It is 1994 and baseball is on strike so I will not see the first place Yankees advance to the playoffs and win the World Series.
You may doubt that the Yankees would have actually won the
WHEN ONE MORNING I WOKE UP MISSING JOEY CARUSO, THE BEST SECONDBASEMAN I EVER PLAYED WITH. I COULDN’T SHAKE IT OFF, THIS MISSING. SO I WROTE THIS POEM
Devin Kelly
It means nothing now but it meant enough then, enough to change a life, to alter the smooth rhythmic turning of the world.
The Big Inning: Game 95 // Ninth Inning, Chicago // The Cubbies Win the Pennant
Brendan Donley
What can be said about this game that hasn’t already been said about Christmas morning? Better than that. The first day of a summer break. Better than that. Evening fireworks on the 4th of July. That, too. Better than all. A graduation, an engagement, a marriage, a festival, a celebration. An outdoor fete to anything.
Carl Mays Kills Ray Chapman
Andrew Butler
He doesn’t have any friends and doesn’t want any.
That’s the only way Mays can pitch,
because he doesn’t play the game
of fraternity formed on summer ballfields.
The Big Inning: Game 69 // Seventh Inning, Los Angeles // A Silent Gift, for Vin Scully
Brendan Donley
Vin Scully alone in a broadcast booth, talking by himself, talking to us. Assuring the world that all’s well in Dodgeralia. Calm. Composed. At home, in a park he’ll depart at season’s end. Handpicking his words, off endless branches, branches’ branches, in a deep memory he builds, maintains over many years, keeps polished like a jewel.
Batter's Box Picture
Josh Kalscheur
Me at my most beautiful. Me locked in. Me sacrifice stance.
Peggy Park, August 1992
Bryan Washington
Micah turned pro and the rest of us went regular.
He Felt the Crowd Beating in His Heart: Rajai Davis & Game 7 of the 2016 World Series
Jason Koo
It is a game of beautiful pauses, pauses that take up so much of the game’s duration that calling them “pauses” seems inaccurate; the moments of action, rather, are what interrupt the long stretches of inaction.
Run the Jewels
Sean West
And I had to wonder while I watched the mosh-pits if these kids were even listening.
Delayed Romance
Aaron Sinner
Ten years removed from my youth baseball experience, I find myself in a car with four baseball-obsessed college buddies, headed toward the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome to see the Minnesota Twins play a mid-September game against the Detroit Tigers. I have no idea why I’m here.
Off The Diamond
Zebulon Huset
He could say from experience
that Babe Ruth was an asshole,
but he never said it on the field.
Nineteen Eighty-Four: After Charles Simic
Kyle Bilinski
That was the year Dave Kingman’s pop fly never came down at the Metrodome
Nineteen players were ejected during the Padres/Braves brawl
Angel Mike Witt threw a perfect game against the