and I'm riding my bike at a guy that hit me with a rock
and I'm crashing into his fat stomach
and I'm going over my handlebars
and I've got his neck in my hands
and we're flying toward the ground
and I'm digging my fingers into his skin
and he's yelling and trying to choke me
and I'm slapping his hands away
and I've got my fingers in his collar
and I'm throwing him
and he's sideways in the air
and he's hitting a tree and bouncing
and hitting the ground
and I'm still mad
and I take his keys from his car
and throw them over the trees
and they don't make a sound as they fly away

It’s a beautiful morning. Did the toilet thing, which went smoothly. Made some Joe. Phone rings but nobody there. Yesterday, due to rain falling into my brainwaves, I had a splitting headache. I became semi-unconscious. If only I could have recorded every aural and visual neural spasm, it would have generated a great work of art (at least I think so).

Lee Sharks’ poems have appeared in Heaven, The White House, and Inside Your Brain All the Time, among other publications. He is the winner of numerous prizes, including Guggenheim and MacArthur fellowships. He has used his MacArthur money to replace his friends and family with moving statues made of rubies.

I am winding this clock
aware
that this is a direct reaction
to a different thought.

Only three teeth remaining
what can be done
sooner or later
even those three
will be gone
broken into fragments
some of which
will be swallowed

this very hour
a new loss discovered
by my tongue
the serrated remains
of my former fourth tooth
a jagged blade rooted
into my jawbone
my tongue scraped
against it
as I sang to myself
while mending
the right knee
of my Sunday
trousers

oh my teeth
so small
but enough to remind
me
of my place
in the universe
so much
that I can foresee
myself dying
in a room
with broken windows
no door
in its frame
through which
an unwanted dog
has entered
to get out of the rain

and the dog
bears witness
to my whistled
final breath
before sniffing
my cold and dirty
hand and feeling
that hunger
is hunger
and meat
is meat


Nathan Blan is thirty-nine years old and lives in Kentucky with his sister, two nieces, four cats, and a dog. His goal in life is to get the hell out of the Bluegrass State.

Handling Knives While Naked
by Brian S. Corbett

I HATE handling knives when I’m naked. The glare from the overhead fluorescent lights; my bobbing, wrinkled thing.—Damn, it makes me shiver.

I hate being outside during a severe wind storm, especially when I remove the blindfold and realize everyone’s left me alone.
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The sun beats down on the cracked pavement of the Pizza Hut parking lot, and a haze of dirty humidity hangs in the air. Some of the light comes in through the drive thru window and falls directly on me. Waves of distortion roil in the shadows from the heat coming off the pizza oven.

It was there and then it was gone. Gone so far that even when Max tried to recall what it had been like before he could have no idea if what he was recalling was that or just the shadow play of similar shapes. He had finally been asleep, and then not. So not. The mysteries of withheld sleep seem sometimes unfathomable and other times as blunt as a brick wall. Earlier, Max had taken the route of running into the brick wall until he thereby achieved several hours of sleep.

a poor substitute for the real one.
They forgot to tell the family
not to come this year
on account of the broken
electricity.

That lady with the hair
sits confused in the corner
wondering where
the buzzards
gathered
this time.

I hate handling knives when I’m naked. The glare from the overhead fluorescent lights; my bobbing, wrinkled thing.—Damn, it makes me shiver.

I hate being outside during a severe wind storm, especially when I remove the blindfold and realize everyone’s left me alone.