featured works

Winter 2013:
Scott King: Plains Emerald

Bethany Schultz Hurst:
Etiquette for the Soft Skinned

Edgar Gabriel Silex: Grief

Summer 2013:
Heidi Shuler: Armadillo in Love
Anna Schachner: Sylvia

Antoinette Brim: Thank You Note To Picasso

Gary Fincke: The House Fox

Winter/Spring 2014 :
Edward Field: Getting Used to It—

Val Haynes: Shark Skin

Summer/Fall 2014:
Terrell Jamal Terry: Wrinkled Respite

Summer/Fall 2015:
Daniel Donaghy: Old Man Shooting Free Throws

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Pass It On Poetry

Letter from the Neuse River Headwaters

I was born in Heidelberg, Germany in 1981, however, I was raised primarily in Raleigh, NC and Killeen, TX. We moved around a lot in these cities, so every poem I write includes particles of occurrences and possibilities of my life's myth. If you want to get out of yourself, poetry is no escape.

I stumbled on poetry in my late twenties, after a stint in the U.S. Air Force, and towards the end of ten years living and working at various jobs in Seattle, WA. I did a lot of investigating: jazz, classical music, modernist fiction, philosophy, psychology, abstract expressionism. I had my own versions of strife and nothing seemed to work.

I borrow from my reactions to living. There are natural challenges and demands that go beyond form and subject matter; at least for someone who takes poetry seriously and suspiciously. I can't see where I am going, or know what I will discover. I feel strongly that this is the reason why I write. It is constancy. I know that anything may enter the poem, (politics, commercials, religion, emotion, and even indifference) but not everything will. It is a strange and rich artistic communication, and I continue to enter the process without placing intentions on the individual poems.

I have cried at the tiniest things, mostly from songs and scenes.

Some days your mind goes to a silent room.
It says it knows about seduction—
insinuation: the coming days are lost,
and I am unable to sleep beside my malice.
Should I hush with that relationship
in the midst of this fermenting sight
of serious weeping? There is a sun
in cylindrical eyes, so if I speak sarcastically
when discussing the phases of hell
in any human, I am only drunk on confusion
and floored by those dim depths of grief.

But what can I offer?
I have no remedy prepared
for the complicated weight on this world
since the beginning
of our crimes. I think around you
into the full dark swirl in my stomach.

And I cannot reach our children in a spare city
spilling with people. Your form often fades,
so I study the pattern that crafts your name.
Whoever may have eyes on a land fair enough
to see me come from nowhere,
to murky weeks in the good company
of carpet slippers and a leashed libido—
well, they are now birds. I have not caught up
with the times. Last year, I piggybacked
a sample of black nights. I got your texts.

They were odd with wild clarity. However,
I am tied in a tangent over a half century
of technology I don’t love or loathe—
I hear the molecules mule your mind.
You are as elusive as warmth in ice,
with your wet stars and endless jovial motives.


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