Two Poems by Win Harms — Hastings and Abbot Street by Gabor Gasztonyi

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Two Poems

by Win Harms


"Hastings and Abbot Street, Vancouver, BC, 2013", Copyright © 2013 Gabor Gasztonyi

“Hastings and Abbot Street, Vancouver, BC, 2013″, Copyright © 2013 Gabor Gasztonyi


i imagine hemingway’s last minutes


driven by soul and too much scotch

i wonder if he really wanted to die

i think about what that shotgun felt

like as he held it in his hands

was the barrel cool in his throat; did he gag?

what was his last confession?

a story of a safari gone awry or

his best friend having his leg blown

off in the great war

maybe he thought about a woman he loved

many years ago that didn’t love him back

all these thoughts in those last moments

living is waiting to die

building up to this last moment

channeling your goodbyes

love was a game but it was pretty to think so

of course he had these feelings so

what does that make me

as i contemplate hemingway’s

last lovely minutes?


~Win Harms

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Millennial Rx by Rebeka Singer — Video Still by Stasja Voluti

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Millennial Rx

by Rebeka Singer


"Untitled Still of Video Poem Project", Copyright © 2015 Stasja Voluti

“Untitled Still of Video Poem Project”, Copyright © 2015 Stasja Voluti


Here’s my soul. I’m giving it to you. Do you want it? Will you take it? I don’t care for it much anymore. My soul never gave me much. And now here it is: I’ll curse it out. “Every inch of my tar black soul,” Lana sings. That’s mine. Thank you, Lana, for making tar black souls sound soulful.


I watch a Harry Potter film each night, sometimes two in a row, either the same, or two separate films in the series. I drink champagne and pop Xanax to numb the fear that I might actually be alone, or, worse, I might actually need to be alone.
See, I want to be in love—with my boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, he never really can decide his status, or my ex-husband, whom I left for my phantasm of a boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. Never can tell. Can’t tell much. Wish I could say, “Can’t tell me nothing” like Kanye West. An ex-friend text me the other day: “Don’t parade your life around Facebook like Kanye West. You’re not a rich, famous rapper— yet.” That’s not verbatim.

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Flying Home by Steve Dalachinsky & Sig Bang Schmidt — Pre-Order

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Flying Home


visual art and poetry


by Steve Dalachinsky & Sig Bang Schmidt





eleased by Paris Lit Up Press just in time for the 100th anniversary of World War I, Flying Home is an extraordinary artistic collaboration featuring 55 original works of art by Sig Bang Schmidt with verses by world-renowned poet, Steve Dalachinsky.

Digitalizing and colorizing authentic World War I archival photographs, Sig Bang Schmidt’s images present surreal vistas of warfare revived with intensely saturated colors that bring the Great War out of the grim grayscale of textbook history. Steve Dalachinsky’s unique, vibrant words, create fragmented narratives of the lives and deaths of the men lost to the dark hole of war.
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TeleText on a Cross by Andreas Maria Jacobs

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TeleText on a Cross

visual art and poetry

by Andreas Maria Jacobs


"Lady Bird", Copyright © 2014 Andreas Maria Jacobs

“Lady Bird”, Copyright © 2014 Andreas Maria Jacobs

Parking Lot Whore
like a parking lot whore
smoking crack behind the fire door
humming songs through your broken teeth
of beaten cheeks on dirty floors
among rusty bicycles without locks
dripping mouths and swollen cocks
in silent sunsets without lights
of asphalt jungles & neon nights
it was in this mental hospital we did meet
among your medicine and the drugs you need
to stop your broken heart from knocking at the door
of the hidden entrance to the second floor
in that secret city where we never were before
where golden roses were covering your sheets
~Andreas Maria Jacobs Read more

Prince Picnic by Clint Burnham

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Prince Picnic
I told my father, I said, I am going to be a musician. He say magician no good. I say, why you magician no good?
Magician be gay. Woman be gay. Man be gay. Everything be gay.
He say you will I say how you think that. I am disappointed in you. What do you think you raised? How did you raise? You raised me. How can you think magic will make me not your son? Read more