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By Keith Wilson
shall i tell you, then, that we exist?
there came a light, blue and white careening,
the police like wailing angels
to bitter me.
By Minal Hajratwala
Your rage is pomegranates spilling open on ice, is the flute’s thin silver seam, is a volcano spitting rivulets of fire to wash clean these corrupt lands.
By Dominique Christina
This poem is in video format.
By Jen Hofer
what dateless body what we exacted or nixed or hexed in the eternal present of not being able to – what not being able to not be considered garbage or trashed by the bag
By Luis Alberto Ambroggio
Poetry might never have seen
that categorical word,
but in its charged belligerence
of emotions and in its profound determination,
By Patrick Rosal
A brisk sunset walk home: Lafayette Ave.
After weeks straight of triple layers
and double gloves, the day has inched
By Lauren K. Alleyne
Where does a black girl go
when her body is emptied `
Of her? And her wild voice,
where does it sing its story
By Oliver Baez Bendorf
The new perfection is imperfection.
I’m striving for it in all things great and small.
Stray from the recipe. Hit send. Risk it.
Leave the art a little crooked on the wall.