"As All Can Be" art by Edward Lee

by Dana Curtis

“The literary equivalent of a hallucinogen; or:qualities of a hallucinogen reduced to literary essence”
-Steve Erickson, American Stutter

I look for the opium den or
the library because I need
the sweet addled sleep of
the damned, the endlessly
levitated and furious, fearless
on the collapsed couch, words
leaking out the corners
of my mouth. It’s the only way
to look at a sunset,

"Ecumenical" painting by Michael Moreth

by Seth Hagen

I was a cabinetmaker commissioned

To construct the King’s sex chair.

I was a maypole flag wet with June dew

I was half-mouse, half-toad.

Like a dog now paraplegic

I wore a bright coat.

Like a dog now paraplegic

I wheeled on.

A room. A braided rug. Two doors.

One half-open, the other half-closed.

Like a spoonbill splayed

And two owls in a mangled oak.

"Golden Orb Weaver" collage by Tiffany Dugan

by Ashleigh A. Allen

Starting next week, we pray loud
in the direction of memory.
Face forest like a flag, mount the lions.
Your insides hairy and damp as concrete.
Sundays full of worry and worms, socks
hour the clocks full of snow, the doorway
is deliberate. In the garden, flattening
the lawn. Your song comes to me eyes
first, lands on warm lashes, saliva
across a naked face, you look up, ask for sky
but all you get is god,

"Storm Brewing Over the City" painting by Nuala McEvoy

by Laurel Benjamin

wouldn’t order for you because I don’t know your coffee tastes,
but this place has a steel reputation. I heard rumors
about your cloistered ways, how you’ve grabbed a sack and thrown it
dripping on the threshold, creature with fangs and octopus eyes
birthed. Frankly, all I could imagine,
dark roast, though the art photos
plastered on the walls don’t jive with your paintings,
especially the mohawk woman. I expected
your small flames to fan at the table
on time,