Matt Morris is the author of Nearing Narcoma, winner of the Main Street Press Poetry Book Award, and Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hand, published by Knut House Press. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies.
//
TINY AIRPORTS
The fog lifts. You glimpse
the wires holding up
the plane, scuffed wing
tips of angels who guide it along
peeking out from a cardboard
cut-out cloud—that dark
fat one, for instance,
following you. What
did you expect—whirring
propellers of some gray
puddle-jumping albatross
to glide across the sun’s
smiley button face? Up here
home is but a speck
on the glass, your career
even less significant—as if that’s
possible. The drunk
next to you wants to hold
hands for luck, but surely he
sees through the guise
of your humanity.
Way down below,
the runway sticks out its sleek
black tongue to taste
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thru July 30th, Lulu is offering free mail shipping or 50% off ground shipping with coupon code of SHIPIT2018
most recent:
the boy who touched all the eggs
11.00
258 pages
published June 2017
-this is a combined publication of three previous works (surprise for me a crow / name calling / paw five) as well as some newer poems
~
L A I T Y
8.00
116 pages
published August 2017
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/l-a-i-t-y/paperback/product-23291654.html
~
everything I touch remembers being my hand
9.00
172 pages
published November 2017
~~~~~
note:
all book previews on site are the viewed book in its entirety. will send free PDFs per request. also, all titles will be sent free in hard copy to those interested in writing a review.
inquire, request, here: bartonsmock@yahoo.com or bartsmock@gmail.com
~~~~~
even more unnecessary:
in the doing of a thing there is often a lull and in that lull a curvature of worry that perhaps something has too quickly taken shape and so one might be led to explore creating, not to make, but to evoke and I will attempt, here, to do that and hope it is a space that takes up only its own.
for an elusive
smallness
not seed, nor raincloud
grievance
of ghost
that was
the is
my father’d
been
dropped from a hand-shaped dream
were three fish the length of my beating…
–
your ghost town anthills
this blank
taxi
seeable
porn
–
by horse I mean
thing without a ghost / that we followed with our hair
Wanda Deglane is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology and family & human development. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming from Rust + Moth, Glass Poetry, L’Ephemere Review, and Former Cactus, among other lovely places. Wanda self published her first poetry book, Rainlily, in 2018.
~
July
July is the aftermath of screaming / the eerie quiet after hurricane / July is catching on fire from standing outside / we hide from blistering asphalt in a home that is a slow suffocation / what’s in the air? / we move from one death to another / with no rest stop in between / the best present I ever gave my mother was my pepper spray / it takes a special kind of agony to realize / she…
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JON CONE
A review of Jon Cone’s gutting chapbook Cold House is posted at brokenpencil:
/ work in {isacoustic*}
https://isacoustic.com/2018/03/07/person-jon-cone-two-poems/
https://isacoustic.com/2017/11/15/person-jon-cone-four-poems/
~
CLARA BURGHELEA
Clara Burghelea has some stellar work at Dodging The Rain:
https://dodgingtherain.wordpress.com/2018/07/25/clara-burghelea-my-lopsided-sun/
/ work in {isacoustic*}
https://isacoustic.com/2018/04/15/person-clara-burghelea-one-poem/
~
HEATHER MINETTE
Heather Minette was asked about her book Half Light over at The Signal:
/ release announcement for Half Light
https://isacoustic.com/2018/06/15/heather-minettes-half-light-release-announcement/
/ work in {isacoustic*}
https://isacoustic.com/2018/01/29/person-heather-minette-three-poems/
mercy musics (i)
this is where
her name
is changed
to dog, not
puppy
where her father believes
he can stab
a bird
and talk
to ladders
dear
ladder, longing
eats only
the hungry
these are my
stick, and haunted,
persons
and what’s
more, it’s mostly
female
this lost
baby
~
mercy musics (ii)
angel, with urn, sleepy
as a hoofprint
is not
a dreamer
of unmarked
edens, but is
of the child
eve
who buried
a mouth
to imagine
a pig
her dream the one where my father pretends to research the wrist of a deer
–
given another chance, I’d check my memoir to see if it’s happened yet
–
god is the least efficient way to feel nothing
you recall
yourself
inventing
kingsoftrain 