Ed owns the road. I don’t. And he does the hard work. You can tell that by the cracks in his hands. He looks fearsome if you don’t know him with those pitted cheeks and hard stone eyes. He’s fearsome even if you do know him. The title to that stretch of asphalt, route 87, is held by Ed when he grips the wheel of his old pickup, cranks it up to high gear, and rattles and rocks and farts his way to the next job. He works for no one but himself, takes no shit from…
The Oldest College Literary Magazine in the Nation
From Poetry
Poetry: “San Francisco (1956)”
San Francisco (1956) woman, child of narcotic sleep, woman, two hands holding the slippery, deserter sea. she’s going to another horizon, she’s leaving; it’s just like a failsafe lover, betraying what was never had and was doomed anyway to weary half-contented slumber, to puncture the calendar. I was echo-chamber dissent. no one else dissented,…
Poetry: “Fall (SpaceShipTwo)”
I am nine miles above you and falling fast once iron groans and peels away from me and strapped to this rock I am birthed too heavy there is no air up here and slammed, gut compressed to spine I could not breathe anyway but for a feather I would still be…