This is a still moment of creation Like they always are. You cannot tell me it wasn’t raining Out, a warm fire in an ancient cave, When someone more like me than I imagine Painted the hunt (which now was also still). It’s raining now, Has been all day like dusk, And my Chicago apartment,…

Once you’ve met one werewolf You know anyone might Contort and change. They say it’s always at the full moon, But when you grow up collecting silver bullets You learn different. And you know of other transformations, From more than just the story books. Chased, women turn to trees in fear, Or lose their shape,…

Head on the pillow. In front of the sink. Slipping on little black boots. Driving away, singing a song. Someplace dark Walking quickly Pretending not to hear Them call her faggot. And I’m not there To fight them off As if I could defend  Everything I love.  And my heart is also in California With…

Felix Deiss A note: This style of poem is known as a sestina. The final word of each line is reused in a different and specific order in the following stanza.

The leaves were left on the floor this morning, like red solo cups. And the wood returned my texts with the curtness of a scorned lover.   Can someone tell me what happened last night? At the party? Felix Deiss

Nights like these are hard and white and crack like eggshell when you look at them.

It was cold out, as cold as the hands of an old diabetic. I lit my cigarette on the closest star and ducked into the joint. It was red inside, and blurry The man on the stage played the sax syncopated. Like a man with two left feet. The suspect looked the part. He was…

I-94 E I can hardly see through yesterday’s rainbows in a black and white photograph blanket fort             (Please) Turn up the radio til it disappears. Hidden fires strip to streetlight personals They flipbook by and your head on my shoulder is the harvest moon. The light woke up to find herself tied with wire…

Blue skin scaled over the arched back of the sea, retching. The sick foam on the shore and on M–––‘s boots. His shadow on the cliff behind is of an ivy sort. It lingers after he departs. It weakens the wall. White salt stays on dried leather like a mountain range. M––– ponders over his…

Everything seems impossible To the soaked grass beneath the melting snow. And the leafless trees keep reaching Into the blue sky, hopelessly. My neighbor is out in his garden. Pulling Browned remains of summer from the earth. He leaves a pile I’ve read will shelter bees And the papery eggs of praying mantis. I cannot…