We comb through hundreds of literary magazines to bring you one stellar poem or flash fiction piece every weekday.
I’m getting nice and
polished it’s nice/fine, my
lashes as long as the
line at the mall. How did
I do it––do I have the aim
of manipulating fancies?
Sure I do, I have to, my
parents got an anonymous
letter about my chin hairs
from a “friend” who knew
their address
Read it in Ornery Quarterly
But the teamsters
called mass meetings, yelled down
decades of Mike Casey.
Who in our towers of one
& zero can picture it?
Read it in Crybaby
DAY THREE
Befriend a dog but know that it isn’t yours. Form a bond if you must but don’t divulge your secret.
DAY FOUR
Travel using words.
Read it in fractured
Might my stillness be
sacredMight my snore ring
out
my desires in the
heavens
Read it in Emergent Literary
We think, possibly, you may have left
something in your cart.
Did you want to complete your purchase?
You might regret not possessing
that which you delicately and with care considered
from the rank enclosure of your bedroom
wrapped in a damp towel, face touched
by a taxonomic blue
from that endless river of rectangular light
by which you are carried into yourself.
Read it in Folder Magazine
This is what you get, Church, for making God
my size. This is what you get, God,
for making yourself so hard to find.
Read it in failbetter
I’m finally starting to feel good — loose, kinda peaceful, know what I mean? Kinda like I’m flying. Like I can go back to Sunny and the kid now and I won’t blow up as soon as I walk through the door. Like maybe things’ll be better this time.
The wind feels a little cool, and there’s a green forest smell in the air. The Harley is roaring along beneath me, and it feels alive, like I’m riding a big jungle cat, a tiger or a big panther …
Read it in The Fabulist
It finds lost things, keyholes,
targets, and the way, with photons hurled
at mystery.
Read it in Geist
Simply live the snow and simply speak
The snow alert the selves within you snow
Is here to cool the selves within you
Read it in Tinge Magazine
Once we thought there was nothing down here,
a dead zone. The truth is much stranger—the depths alive
with creatures so delicate a wave of your hand will rend them
to shreds.
Read it in Reed Magazine
A Quiet Root 