Spangle Road by Leonard A. Heid
Spangle Road by Leonard A. Heid

Artwork

Leonard A. Heid | bio

Spangle Road by Leonard A. Heid The Stables at Dusk by Leonard A. Heid
Sundown near the Palouse by Leonard A. Heid

 

Translation

Floarea Ţuţuianu | bio
translated from Romanian by
Adam J. Sorkin and Irma Giannetti

My Dog the Soul

Hand over my heart I pledge the oath
(under my tongue the word fermenting in saliva ...
[more]

The Book of Life

I need my sleep
Only in sleep does the poetry I have to write
give itself to me ...
[more]

 

Audio

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Cynthia J. Hollenbeck | bio

Zig Zag  

Another trinket in the display window
of my father’s shoe repair shop, I am
an unkempt preschooler in bell bottoms
and T-shirt sitting among upside down
armadillo shells stuffed with buckles,
rows of handmade leather sandals,
puck-shaped tins of shoe polish ...
[more]

 

Jeff P. Jones | bio

More Fire   

Midnight on the Gulf of Finland

Spreads black so thin it bleeds

Into blue ... [more]

Seasons of Memory  

Into frost’s
harrowed rows—
frozen earth, where plows
have passed these many years,
coaxing winter wheat to rise,
the earthbound toil for bread ...
[more]

 

 

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Volume 4.2 | August 2009


Editor’s Notes

The Familiar Blip

Last week at the local Goodwill, I found an old AIWA stereo that plays compact discs and cassette tapes. It was equipped with a speaker and a red and black wire that one would have to manually attach the speaker to the outlet in the back of the stereo. The speaker box was large, the size of a small filing cabinet, but probably weighed less than three pounds. I inspected the tag where someone had scribbled ten dollars in a blue sharpie. I inquired from one of the workers if the stereo worked. She smiled strangely—insultingly—and said yes. I smiled back, thinking sold..... [more]

 

Fiction

Diane Simmons | bio

Suitcase

Some people were yelling that it was bourgeois to care if the kitchen floor pulled at your socks. Yeah, and what was wrong with shit on the side of the toilet? Shit’s natural ... [more]

 

Donna D. Vitucci | bio

Most Beautiful

Our desks arranged a two-row-deep horseshoe shape for John O’Connor’s striding through the mix of upperclassmen in Latin III, translation of Virgil’s Aeneid. Our teacher mocked and extolled the gods’ and goddesses’ exuberant jealousies, their efforts at crushing human hearts and shaping the world. He reveled in the amusement, for it had nothing to do with him or with us, not really. It was subject matter. It was the matter ... [more]

 

Poetry

Tabitha Dial | bio

From 40 Variations of Citrus

He said he played trumpet once,
and once, I was also in that grove ...
[more]

From 40 Variations of Citrus

There may be a word for this
           that has nothing to do with ...
[more]

 

Bonnie McClellan | bio

To Carlito di Torano

Lizzatura, impossibility of scale.
The slipping of the lizard ton, slow heave:
Skittering run of started stones, pale ...
[more]

 

Colin Pope | bio

On the Disappearance of Bees, Spring 2009

You want to tell them
to take care of the sharks while they’re at it
and then the gators and crocodiles
piranha with their keyless mouths ...
[more]

 

David Thacker | bio

Hailstorm

Dew settles on the chain-link fence and freezes,
lozenges of winter that hang for days. Two boys gather
handfuls in their mitts, suck a few—each its own small winter ...
[more]

 

Lafayette Wattles | bio

What She’s Become

after reading “Not The Furniture Game” by Simon Armitage

Her hair is gold—
fish in a shattered mirror

and her ears are discarded
snail shells that have become too much to carry ..
. [more]

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