new poem from an old notebook, by Jordan Davis

 

I’ve had this impossible notebook
for thirty years. Good rigid cover
but you have to bend it in a way
it’ll obviously fatigue. 

Banana paper,
always banana paper 

I think I got this
at the place on Third,
New York Art Supply 

The surliest Parsons kids
playing hardcore
and scowling 

I wonder how many were OTD

The feeling of writing on a lunch bag
forever 

It isn’t lunch break
forever
however

 

 

Jordan Davis is editor of The Nu Review. In 2025 he is helping coordinate the Kenneth Koch Centenary Celebration. Recent work appears in Oversound, The Canary, and American Poetry Review. His most recent book is Yeah, No (MadHat, 2024).

Storm Snapshot, by Yuan Changming

 

 

            Face so deeply wrinkled
By the seasonal winds of history
The sea is getting simply too old
To recall what fishes are still left
Swimming in its heart of darkness

 

 

Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan. Credits include 16 chapbooks, 14 Pushcart nominations besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline and 2,109 other publications across 51 countries. Yuan began writing and publishing fiction in 2022 [debut (hybrid) novel Detaching now available].

The Ballad of a Boy I Knew, by Misha Solomon

 

I knew a boy, in days bygone
Days like those the Bard called salad
I knew a boy who knew me not
Knew not I would write this ballad 

Although the boy knew need and want
His wants and needs were ill-defined
He did, however, like to please
You want or need? He didn’t mind 

I knew this boy in Edinbur-
gh — he pronounced it wrong back then
Staring at a man mosaic
Getting replies from one in ten 

(Back home he was spooked by Grindr
But traveling he could overlook
The seedy nature of the app
Desperate as he was to hook 

Up.) Finally, a freckled man
Replied “U2” to “hey you’re hot”
The man sent pics of varied parts
Off our boy went to chez the Scot 

The Scot knew his own wants and needs
His barren flat, his full control
He demanded our young traveler
Treat him as no more than a hole 

Back at home the boy was haunted
By the Scot’s post-coital reply:
“That’s it?” The boy did not ever
Want to let down another guy 

And so some sunny afternoon
He found an older man in need
Of someone without agency
In whom to place his shaft and seed 

The man’s apartment was quite sparse
A single lamp, the walls all bare
The straightest porn emanating
From the large TV’s ghastly glare 

Our boy took on the Scottish role
His mouth agape, his ass ajar
And though the man seemed satisfied
The boy did find it quite bizarre 

That this man and the Scot, the both
Lived in spaces without decor
Without flowers, even dead ones
                                    Left to wilt, their petals fallen
                                                                        Left because the note they came with
Read “for my love, whom I adore” 

Our boy and I thought back to the Scot’s
“That’s it?” which seemed now, in hindsight,
Not a complaint the boy had come
Too fast, but a larger quandary,
                                                            an insight:
                                                                                    “Is that all there is?” 

Our boy and I remembered that
The second man had asked the boy
If he wanted anything, needed anything
(the bathroom,
                        a glass of water,
                                                    a tissue,
                                                                  his number,
                                                                                      directions,
                                                                                                        an Uber,
                                                                                                                       to come)
Before he left — the boy said no 

If he said yes they could have chatted
One’s hair a mess, one’s moustache matted
About their parents or the weather
He learned it didn’t matter whether 

He got off or was the gotten
The taste or tingle fast forgotten
If he wasn’t getting what he needed
He could leave a whole town seeded 

                                                                        And still — “that’s it?”

And sex is good and great and grand
And go fuck hard! And go get rammed!
The boy could be a dom, a pig
(The boy was me, there’s no more jig)
But in Scotland or at home
All I wanted were the flowers 

The place to judge isn’t ours
Perhaps the Scot was sated
Perhaps the older man was too
But I wasn’t, I just didn’t mind
And so I left the boy behind

Misha Solomon is a poet in and of Tiohtià:ke/Montréal. He is the author of two chapbooks, FLORALS (above/ground press, 2020) and Full Sentences (Turret House Press, 2022), and his work has recently appeared in Best Canadian Poetry 2024, Arc, The Fiddlehead, Grain, The Malahat Review, PRISM international, and Riddle Fence. His debut full-length collection is forthcoming with Brick Books in 2026.

The Lineage of Silence, by John Levy

 

 

Silence hid before
language 

then tried to

conceal itself
within 

words

inside each
word 

it tried

to find itself

                               for John Phillips

 

 

John Levy lives in Tucson. He is married to the painter Leslie Buchanan. His most recent poetry book is 54 poems: selected & new (Shearsman Books, 2023). Two chapbooks of his poetry were published in 2024: Guest Book for People in My Dreams (Proper Tales Press) and To Assemble an Absence (above/ground press).

 

The Island of Ortigia, by Salvatore Difalco

 

During the Gigantomachy depicted in the frieze on the Pergamon Altar
Asteria stands with Titan mother Phoebe against the Giants. 

Zeus as eagle lusted after Asteria
who in turn transformed into a quail. 

The ortux thus flung herself into the Aegean.
It was there she metamorphosed into an island. 

Ortux equals quail. Asteria equals Delos
equals Ortigia or Ortygia. 

Delos came first in the Homeric Hymn to Apollo.
or is that apocryphal? If so 

why go to such lengths?
On the Island of Ortigia 

in modern day Siracusa or Syracuse,
Rosalia, a Sicilian widow, washes dishes 

by a window overlooking the piazza.
Is she sad? Is she full of yearning? 

The sad thing is, there are no eagles in the piazza.
There are no eagles on the Island of Ortigia.

 

 

Sicilian Canadian poet and author Salvatore Difalco currently lives in Toronto, Canada.

d.find(“A person…”), by Kyle Flemmer

27 search result:

A person who operates a machine.

A person who runs a data processing center.

A person who maintains a development support library.

A person skilled in the operation of the computer

     and associated peripheral devices.

A person who writes programs designed by other,

     more experienced, programmers.

A person who maintains custody and control of disks, tapes,

     and procedures manuals by cataloging and monitoring

     the use of these resources.

A person that purchases a hardware or software system.

A person that manufactures, sells, or services computer equipment.

A person who designs data communications networks.

A person who oversees the work performed

     in a word processing center.

A person who operates an electronic bulletin board.

A person whose regular job is directly related to the computer.

A person who uses a keyboard device to transcribe data.

A person responsible for operating the company's main computer

     and for keeping an eye on the numerous employees using it.

A person who uses a computer system or its output.

A person responsible for the physical security of computers

     and the logical security of their data resources.

A person involved in the design of a hardware product.

A person in charge of a large collection of software.

A person that has achieved a certain professional status,

     usually by passing a rigorous examination.

A person trained in the information processing field, who works

     with businesses and organizations on a temporary basis

     helping them to solve problems.

A person who lays out a circuit in its original "large" form.

A person responsible for the enforcement of a project's goals.

A person who does clerical jobs in a computer installation.

A person skilled in solving problems, especially

     with techniques involving a computer.

A person who wants to do something with a computer

     but does not have experience programming.

A person not trying to learn in a meaningful manner,

     but rather by trial and error.

A person who uses computers as tools in producing art.

Kyle Flemmer is an author, editor, and publisher from Calgary in Treaty 7 territory. He recently completed an MA in English Literature at the University of Calgary, where he researched digital poetics. Kyle founded The Blasted Tree Publishing Company in 2014 and served as Managing Editor of filling Station magazine from 2018-2020. He has published several poetry chapbooks, most recently Little Songs by No Press and Gourmand by Paper View Books. Kyle's first book, Barcode Poetry, was published by The Blasted Tree in 2021.

Three poems, by Rus Khomutoff

 

Rus Khomutoff : I am an experimental poet in Brooklyn, NY. I have published 3 collections of poetry since 2015. My writing has appeared in Blue as an orange, Bold Monkey review, X-PERI & Litter.

My personal blog is radiaworld.tumblr.com