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Poetry Winter 2013    fiction    all issues


Alysse Kathleen McCanna
& other poems

Peter Nash
Shooting Star
& other poems

Katherine Smith
House of Cards
& other poems

David Sloan
On the Rocks
& other poems

Alexandra Smyth
Exoskeleton Blues
& other poems

John Glowney
The Bus Stop Outside Ajax Bail Bonds
& other poems

Andrea Jurjević O’Rourke
It Was a Large Wardrobe...
& other poems

Lisa DeSiro
Babel Tree
& other poems

Michael Fleming
& other poems

Michael Berkowitz
As regards the tattoo on your wrist
& other poems

Michael Brokos
Landscape without Rest
& other poems

Michael H. Lythgoe
Orpheus In Asheville
& other poems

John Wentworth
morning people
& other poems

Christopher Jelley
Double Exposure
& other poems

Catherine Dierker
dinner party
& other poems

William Doreski
Hate the Sinner, Not the Sin
& other poems

Robert Barasch
& other poems

Rande Mack
& other poems

Susan Marie Powers
Red Bird
& other poems

Anne Graue
& other poems

Mariah Blankenship
Tub Restoration
& other poems

Paul R. Davis
& other poems

Philip Jackey
Garage drinking after 1989
& other poems

Karen Hoy
A Naturalist in New York
& other poems

Gary Sokolow
Underworld Goddess
& other poems

Michal Mechlovitz
The Early
& other poems

Henry Graziano
Last Apple
& other poems

Stephanie L. Harper
& other poems

Roger Desy
& other poems

R. G. Evans
& other poems

Frederick L. Shiels
Driving Past the Oliver House
& other poems

Richard Sime
Berry Eater
& other poems

Jennifer Popoli
Generations in a wine dark sea
& other poems

Rande Mack


this man wears his shadow like a frumpy uniform

his temper is dubious but he can’t put it down

he walks into a bar and silence buys the first round

it takes the toasts of strangers to divest his thirst

the stains on his shirt are the medals on his chest

the moon pulls his bravado around by its nose

he smells sweat slippery between breasts

he smells dew beading on wild strawberries

he fords rapids running through raging hearts

his passion insatiably pirouettes in the mirror

his spectacles are fly specked and tinted with fog

what he sees in front of him is not always there

his appetite leads him through a gluttonous waltz

he winks at the future as he dances with the past

the toes he steps on limp away from the brawl

his mother once tangoed time out the door

he keeps her estate in the heel of his shoe

clocks pick his pockets when he falls to the floor


this man clings to the underside of over

he signs his name to documents that won’t rhyme

he paints his mailbox with mustard and guano

he plays the radio his mother kept in her kitchen

in the winter he fine tunes crackling frequencies

searching late night static for a taste of hum

his frost bit ears gather the cloudy music of tiny wings

he once danced in starlight with hungry zigzagging women

now his stomach growls as he swerves to avoid the downbeat

this man sprinkles mosquitoes on short ribs and omelets

he inoculates his memories with mother’s milk and rabies

his great uncles sipped the blood of slumbering giants

on whetstones of dragonfly bones he sharpens his teeth

he squints as the moon blooms in fragrant dark corners

he sniffs gasping blossoms he finds quivering in shadows

his dreams are upsidedown and cratered with echoes

the mirrors in his heart are turned towards the wall

he fondles the what ifs of what must be abandoned


this man is mangled by sawblades of sleep

he wakes up counting his fingers and toes

spotlights fracture the gnarled grain of his dreams

this man is puzzled by the jazz of his own charisma

hope is measured by the length of his shadow

his dreams are branches that won’t fit in the stove

he keeps a portrait of the moon next to his pillow

minutia nibbles on the varnish of his pseudonym

his handshake is a cage in the middle of a smile

laughter is a mirror he shines in curious faces

the shine on his shoes belonged to his father

meaty ledgers were balanced and waiting

he lives in a maze with maps on the walls

he tips the doorman but whistles for the waiter

hunger is an ancient voice in destiny’s choir

his harmonies are stumps on the forested edge

his heart is a blackbird in a frost stippled tree

his fate a tarnished spoon sprinkling his ashes


this man takes out the trash in his tuxedo

he reeks of roadkill he powders his crotch

he sharpens his creases he slicks back his hair

he struts through the hush like he owns all the vowels

he jaywalks with a flair through rush hour traffic

he could get smeared without ruffling a feather

he is a matador sidestepping wheels in a jammed up dream

he is the only son of a sleepwalker and a pilot car driver

at the end of the road a sliver of moon stabbed his mama’s heart

his heart is an old valley slowly choking with intersections

his lovers with their mysteries and mirrors are good for a laugh

his syllables are waves of glass shattering on shores of stone

he is the sergeant of arms in a cathedral of criminal minds

he likes soda in his scotch and his eggs just about to hatch

when shadows steal the day misfortune cues his favorite tune

all his cards are on the table . . . face down but on the table

he has no name for the silence slowing upping the ante

nor for the drumroll about to goosebump his soul

Rande Mack I live in Manhattan, Montana. I weatherize low-income housing for a non profit. I write poetry to keep the lights on inside my head. Occasionally a poem or two flicker in a small publication somewhere. “wild life” is a sample of even more wild life.

Dotted Line