There you aren’t hard like that
Hold it sideways or get in all
Close and give way
Cecily Iddings, “The Decision Tree” (Octopus, Jan. 1)
welcome to the poem
i am cold by the window
Crispin Best, “Allow Me To Change Your Life” (Hilda, Jan. 2)
Christine Friedlander (Women Poets Wearing Sweatpants, Jan. 4th)
When I’m horny I can’t have sex because I am ovulating
When I’m on birth control I can’t have sex because I am not horny
When I’m pregnant I can’t have sex because I’m blown out
When I’m a mother I can’t bear to live
Monica McClure “Off-Duty Model” (GlitterMOB, Jan. 11)
How many ways to dry up the money little blue flaii me crowning the stove.
Allyson Paty, “Millennial” (Pen Poetry Series, Jan. 17)
See, God gave us two great big eyes for darting,
two ears for piercing, and only one heart
which he called Phylomina.
Joshua Kleinberg, “Miserere” (Everyday Genius, Jan 19)
The focus group broke into an ecstatic mutual heat
as her escort reached for his wallet
Monica McClure, “Prestige Beauty” (Coconut, Jan 21)
Daniela Olszewska,”Thirteenz” (Birdfeast,Jan 25)
we need tests on monkeys we need tests
Grzegorz Wróblewski, “Test on Monkeys” (Brooklyn Rail, Jan 27)
“The difference between rappers and poets is poets don’t need to have money to get laid.”
Donald Dunbar, (Facebook comment, Jan. 29)
The moon admires a modernist painting, other deeply
annoying things happen, etc.
Layne Ransom, “Cheap Shot” (Sixth Finch, Feb. 3)
The world does not need more dopey men.
I DO NOT DEAL IN BROKEN MEN.
I broke my hymen over water.
Clearly I’ve looked my vagina in the mirror.
Kelin Loe, “from Toxin Tocsin!” (Specter, Feb. 11)
I want to sleep with the dead
I want to feel the bread.
Tomaz Šalamun (Maggy, Feb 14)
Part of me is prismatic
the best part
Brandon Brown, “The Good Life” (Maggy, Feb. 14)
If I want anything, what
I really want is debt.
Lisa Ciccarello, “Worth Is The Wrong Word” (Pinwheel, Feb. 27)
I love to laugh more than anything.
Amy Lawless, “Ten Sources” (Poor Claudia, Mar. 2)
History, majestic as a parking garage, spits us out
into the flinty twilight and look how nice it feels
to be constantly dissolving. Regardless, we endure this series
of stumblings, our minds galvanized by the mutinous air
and, though our point disappears behind its own static,
signs of the move are everywhere. As miniatures of the vital
impulse, what we do next should be something beautiful:
eat a torch, light an orange, focus on the parts of the dotted line
that were never line to begin with. There are backhoes
and there are omelets. There are cherry trees and there is blood.
That’s as much a narrative as anyone needs.
Nick Sturm, “Poem of the Llama” (Spoke Too Soon, Mar. 5th)
maybe I mean I want to talk forever
but is there even a difference anyway
Sampson Starkweather, “Flowers of Rad” (Academy of American Poets, Mar. 12)
I remember how stoned
I imagined I was.
Matt Rasmussen, “The War On The War” (Revolver, Mar. 13)
When you feel your heartbeat in your teeth,
what more do you want to do than gouge under the gum,
whimpering animal, wounded.
Katie Jean Shinkle, “Polaroid of the One Abandonment Where You Felt Alive” (Coconut, Mar. 17)