In me a man busted to pieces sinks / —like shrapnel—clear-through to bone. / I pull out one piece at a time—
Sounds like a species of coral, / a flute carved from animal bone.
My mother has a box. One day she will pass it down to me because mothers are supposed to give things to their daughters. But I don’t want it.
But I did saw it, and that’s me. I’m seeing all kinds of things these days. You know, The Muffin Man, for example. Saw The Muffin Man yesterday, at the car wash.
Last spring, GMR celebrated its first twenty-five years with a 400-page poetry retrospective compiled by Founding Editor Neil Shepard. This was also Neil's last issue before stepping down as Senior Editor. To read through this anniversary issue is to marvel at the...
All the parts are in the right places, and they hum industriously as you make your way from page to page.
I’m the green bird staring at your naked morning ass through the window. I think I want to learn Japanese. It’ll help me understand this scenario. I want to learn more about recycling. Then I’ll learn even more about the value of useless things.
Poetry had the feeling that they’d always been holding hands, that they sometimes forgot. Prose had the feeling that when they forgot they forgot on purpose. These feelings they had, they had them, then they had some others.
He stood outside the fitness center and watched the women work out in gym suits and leotards that reminded him of sitcoms from the Seventies. There were many fitness centers in the city where he sometimes worked, but this was the one he stopped at. He watched the men,...
Julie Choffel’s The Hello Delay reads very much like “a cautionary tale” for our current age, one that both warns against and seeks out the anxiety that comes with living in the year 2012.
G.C. Waldrep’s most recent collection, Your Father on the Train of Ghosts (BOA Editions, 2011), was a collaborative project with the poet John Gallaher.