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July 3, 2015 |
in Poetry |
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i good friday heading south in a black car to an evening stations of the cross— piano, violins— on the way two buzzards sharing the bloody carcass of a...
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July 2, 2015 |
in Poetry |
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Cedar mulch rough on hands willow shedding leaves tiny room, thatched roof worn and weathered wooden bowl clay pot cracked and brown walls stained with children’s fingerprints dog’s fur...
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July 2, 2015 |
in Poetry |
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I watch the dead from my porch the way a bored person watches TV. Some drive by in fast cars; the brief glimpse of their smiles is like walking into a dark room and opening the light....
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June 29, 2015 |
in Fiction |
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When he arrived at our house, his left shoelace was untied. I remember it distinctly because other than that, his appearance was as neat as a choirboy’s. His hair was cut short, army...
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June 29, 2015 |
in Creative Nonfiction & Memoir |
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It was my mother who first heard me say it. My mother, whom time and circumstance had never allowed the luxury of the birth control pill, who had planned only one of her five children, who...
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June 28, 2015 |
in Fiction |
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She walked diagonally across the plaza, I saw her first. Julie, Jill, and I were taking a shopping break at an iron table outside the stores. Macy’s bags were smushed around the table...
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June 28, 2015 |
in Fiction |
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I stood at the front door of 2150 Skyview Place and tapped the knocker. It was an impressive house: an old, two-story brick with fat, white pillars. The door swung open. Her hair wasn’t...
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June 24, 2015 |
in Fiction |
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Edith walked into the office reception area, lowered her reading glasses, and gave both girls a look. Laurie saw herself through Edith’s eyes: small, too tight khaki mini-skirt, red hair...
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June 23, 2015 |
in Poetry |
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North: after the storm, all dust hung up in the crowded air, with his human face frozen into a dot of dust and a rising speckle of dust melted into his face to avoid this cold climate of...
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April 27, 2015 |
in Art & Photography |
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Lance Johnson is a mixed media artist born and raised in NY. As a young man raised in the Golden Age of Hip Hop, Johnson fell in love with art when he was introduced to the work of a...
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April 19, 2015 |
in Fiction |
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When she first saw him, Becky was heading into the 7-11 on Harper Avenue to buy a Slurpee, Twizzlers, and a pack of Camels. He was smoking. Vapor drifted from his lips as he leaned into the...
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April 19, 2015 |
in Poetry |
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Use with permission by Jasmine. An author, performer, poet, teacher…yes to all of those titles, but more importantly Jasmine Mans is an artist…an artist who enjoys having...
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January 12, 2015 |
in Creative Nonfiction & Memoir |
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In third grade, I sat at a blue metal table outside on the blacktop. An older boy at the next table over said to me, “Your hair looks greasy.” I don’t even remember his name, but I...
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January 11, 2015 |
in Creative Nonfiction & Memoir |
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Sometimes little girls go topless in the warmth of the summer afternoon sun. There was no sense of embarrassment brought on by exposing our bare flat chests. Traffic didn’t stop, no one...
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January 9, 2015 |
in Art & Photography |
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Born in Lowell, Massachusetts, Carole Kaufmann has traveled extensively throughout Europe and the Far East as is evident in her paintings and drawings which evoke her fascination with...
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Ana Flores is a sculptor and ecologist. Her work is informed by how pla
2 Poems
Let Me Straddle Your Mind
The Crusader
Yeah bring our electric shaver back, I bought it we shaved each others back
it was important to me
Kwame Dawes
1
Yes, we were country, lived in shotgun
shacks, where the road loses its way
to dirt and live 
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Courtesy of the artist and Mizuma Art Gallery
"Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to lea
Junot' Diaz
and Edison, NJ
The first time we try to deliver the Gold Crown the lights are on in the house but no on
Elegy & Poem
"We are all the other."
…and find inside a picture,
of myself as a child, sitting
on a small chair, wearing overalls
an
Raphael Perez
To Alex, on turning two
Some say the Ring of Brogar
is the Circle of the Moon.
There is n
March on Washington
An Interview with Cheryl Evans
In a strange twist of what seemed
like reverse vandalism, the Graffiti
Mecca was painted over. 
Forest Gander
A Translation
Quassan Castro, poem
Grandson to Grandmother
Wynwood Walls, of Miami has been called "a Museum of the Streets."
Low like the mean dream
of Newark the sky must
have seemed to its builders.
Rickety now, unhingin
At last, the extremes
of his present methods
seemed to offer
the happiest avenues.
The strengthe
5th Limb
Poems
Poem, Knot
Poem, Look This Way
Xue Du, Poem
A woman in a black kimono dyed black hair
disappeared behind a black curtai
Poem:
Behind the War On Women
Maria Mizzotti-Gillan
Short Story
Pilar Fraile Amador
poem
Lady Haiti
David Trinidad
Landzy Theodore
Angelo Nikolopoulos
