JOHN M. BENNETT ant ant ant ant ant four

June 8, 2014 § Leave a comment


sigh    lens    hair






hand around you faceless


daughter   blue pond and





other clouds


“my name”




the dead parts of me

June 6, 2014 § 1 Comment


onion grass my son pukes in the sink


the moon who cares where it is


your feet they’re nicer than mine


bottle caps rattle among the spoons


the crow says something for the crows


asphalt heat and foreign policy


the dead parts of me pester the rest


stale crackers easy to put them back


your twat I never call it that


the cat’s meow what’s that really about


the penny not as old as it looks


the extra napkin always gets tossed


rain check nothing to do with the rain


your fingerprint a consistent prostitute


the place on you I know you can’t touch


box tops they usually tear anyways


nails one of them in my foot


sassafras people still actually say that


your panties entwined with my odd socks


toothpaste not sure what I’m supposed to think


all the knives clean I hit the lights





MICHAEL DYLAN WELCH ant ant ant ant ant 1995-1999

June 4, 2014 § 1 Comment


autumn rain

a leaf eddies

in the stream



bouncing on the grass

the whiteness

of hailstones



high tide

beach willow leaves

mingle with kelp



on the drive

there and back

a pine needle in the wiper



french graffiti   I drop a coin in the phone booth



overdue   my dead neighbor’s library book






my father on war

May 26, 2014 § Leave a comment


I don’t like camping

They made us do that when

I was in the army

SAM SAVAGE morning-glories

May 25, 2014 § Leave a comment


A bent street sign   the insane man’s eyes



It could be the site for something   a bare hill



Just beyond the prison wall a wall of trees



Dancing to sounds from the Big Band Era a pair of midgets



Out of the fog’s whiteness silence



Unslept, the cool breeze on my eyelids



Alone in a house with children the slowly falling dusk



Along the roadside

torn-up paper in the grass

is morning-glories



May 21, 2014 § Leave a comment


applicant human

verification even this

part I fail


May 7, 2014 § Leave a comment


a new

anthology I learn

of his passing



his brother


for days



on the page

before me in

the old anthology



went for a walk

left his keys his phone

his pills



said yes

once to one of

my poems



“Is that from your

technique or the toughness

of your mouth?”



your death

attributed to




a collection

of flowers that’s

all it means



his last photo

he looks younger

than me





May 2, 2014 § Leave a comment



we all only

live a day




M. KETTNER ant ant ant ant ant 1996-1999

April 22, 2014 § 1 Comment




city limits     bulrushes





the cold

meat hook with your name

chess partner invisible





cattle sleeping

moonlight on their backs





year of the pancreas

sandwich for dessert

theatre seats upside down






hand on backwards

tunnel growing smaller





breeze drying mooring lines fall slack





stray dog     window reflecting blue sky





depressed     echo in a stairwell





a cold scream

narrowly occult

ridge draped in dusk





down to roaches

piano on a railroad track





boldly staccato

fissures singing along

maps set aside






hallway between

bedroom & bathroom





crevice dweller

meat truck parked by the curb

restroom no hand towels



CHRIS GORDON early haiku 1994-1996

March 27, 2014 § Leave a comment


my cold feet

step on her bra

still warm


fallen elm leaves

the plastic bag



unlocking the door

the key she gave

back to me


I buy

another book about




Modern Haiku 25.2



a beautiful mouth

the postal clerk says

she likes my writing



Modern Haiku 25.3



fast-food containers

the weeds green from

the warm rain



Modern Haiku 26.1



the hot asphalt roof small white petals blow in circles


her hand covers my ear the sound blood makes



Modern Haiku 26.2



tea our silence and the hot still morning garden


light warm rain

mosquitos drift up

through wisteria and dusk


the full moon

coats the dark lake

boarding an empty bus



Frogpond 18.2



the orange glint of rush hour way up there a hawk circling


a train enters the distance empty sheets smooth and cool


imagining her with someone else behind the blinds the moon


weeks later her sweet voice it’s just a machine


the crosswalk whistles skimming the pavement an empty bag



Frogpond 18.3



in the dust splotches of rain half the billboard flaps in the wind


a gliding egret the clouds converge on themselves



Frogpond 19.3


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