So far it’s been a month of spring. I’m realizing that of the things that wake florally up, most don’t get to stay up for that long, frost pruning those bold ones that break ground too soon. It’s sad, especially with the weather being so increasingly unpredictable, to see the little green tips that wager on a warm day in late February. I guess it’s like the frog or mosquito strategy at laying eggs: send as many shoots into the realm of the living, and nurture only those emissaries that report back. But what about those that don’t? Where are they commemorated?




I’ll Pick Which

by Rob Rice




Passing him, him not interested in looking at me is

in me forever

off packaging life turnaround


People gave up known people

known open gnashing maw

now they’re feeder cells


Sea beads populate a Ferris wheel

a chill induced in-folding fern bud

pockets dew



When you suspect through supplied theatre

the street

as it is


the people

as they are


without with what

you made them more than


Space and


and Mark



I would never be happy if I didn’t think of myself

in ways I




so manipulation

means making

them think

you think

of them

the way

they hope that they’re thought of



Is the size of the town’s graveyard

a credential

a breast of military metals

a flashed badge

a fake one


The smaller the town the longer the obit

the more dedicated Death of one man’s hero

seems like permission

to save the world

if not to slush it



My own synesthesia meets the man

brings me face to face me


It bends around the right few things

and acquaints us



nested intentions

tune humiliate rather

than procreate



Blame my scattered interest tines

that like Braille

are tactile agents of change



substrates that mill


Dripping seamy invasions

of private space


sensitive thin skin

her inner forearm




affectation involves it in a gesture so

intentionally his affection’s a freezer full


of steak fat clippings



Devil matter spans material like film

and becomes projection


while no less faithful a record



Rigid phase walkers pass through brambles


Brushed aside they’re

leaving stories of their own on that forearm

its etchings are three-dimensionally

deep maps


Clue engineers in there

allowing them to back-solve the structures:

a simple nature



I’m let down when you’re like me

when I realize the smoke is

of what’s just like the mirror


I train myself

blindfolded to sit in my room smelling

bombs Tell me what to fear

faces made bizarre by makeup

startle mine as they turn

to register it



Chest used like the beauty of consent

from tree to future canoe


Hollowed out with tools the anthropologists are grabbing

out of our hands to stick in museums


My heart and lung gore still riddling one

solid and trusted handle

brings new hope for purchase and center placement


Where fat older brothers point it out


Though they haven’t been much for the other pieces

this one has something to it

something it took





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