Some beautiful artwork from Headwaters 2014, out now!


Deborah (Upon seeing her first exhibit in U.S.A.)

Was that you, Arango?

Standing before the hills of your life

you were bare, and on your back: a cross.

There was a place in your eyes:

a child, naked and crying,

still bathed in blood.

There were no mothers,

and the fathers carried

red-cloaked death on their backs.

A fortune teller’s hands

held the silent book of dreams

as her son boarded the final train.

Those who cried your arrival grew silent,

but you were not silenced,

and in your voice, your simple Deborah:

all who died were also alive, rivers bent to your feet,

and finally, a crow rose out of your throat

carrying a snake in its beak.

–Alex Smith


Trashcan Thoughts – Pt. III

…I slipped on my moccasins, put a feather in my hair, &

decided to fuck greatness & fame –

I just wanna be happy.

So I went to work & handed in my 0 weeks notice:

Dear bossman sir,

I went through a metamorphosis today. I’m not

saying I’m a damn butterfly or nothin’ but I’m definitely not

a bug. You can’t squish me no more & I’m mostly talking

about your hand on my ass. Keep my last paycheck. I’m not

coming in to collect it because I don’t need no shiny things.

Buy something nice for that girlfriend you always talk about

but no one’s met or that raccoon I saw out back yesterday.

That trashy little shit would love it.

I put cyanide in the vinaigrette,

Suzy the Savage Server…

–Ted Kendrick

Read “Trashcan Thoughts” in its entirety in Headwaters 2014, to be released this month!


Dignified Sparrow Looking for Weekend Love

A White-Rumped Snowfinch

(Montifringilla Taczanowskii to be precise)

from a fat mother,

from the peak of Beaver Lake’s juniper tree,

where seeds arrive each night at supper

(the depression never struck our nest!)

and from a fine education—

I’ve learned my ways around this town,

I’ve learned the hedges where the crows cackle

By the school, on the mountain roads….

–Mel Holmes

From Headwaters 2014, coming soon to an academic building near you!


Elegy to a Dead Cat on the Side of the Road

You didn’t much chance

now did you little man?

When you ran across the road

and turned back to look,

fish brittle bones

under wheels that crush.

That road you’ve crossed a thousand times,

each crossing, the most dangerous journey

of your life….

–Aaron Romano

Pick up your copy of Headwaters 2014 in Karpen later this month!


Hossanna Americana

In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,

trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth

with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.

He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,

caking the soles of bare feet,

sifting through cracks in church pews,

and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.

In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy

who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.

He is the one who reaches up your skirt,

pulls out the prayers you were saving for someday

and lights them on fire with his tongue.

He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,

call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,

then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned….

-Sarah Gibson

Be sure to pick up a copy of Headwaters 2014 later this month, where you can read all of “Hossanna Americana”!


Pessimism and a Milk Jug (An Ode to Allen Ginsberg)

In a supermarket in California

you once asked that blathering old man

while he ate artichokes, and tasted the psychedelics

of hyper reality for the first time:

what America did you have?

which is something I too think about

when I peek around the loafed breads and

potato chips and see a man just barely hanging on

to the handlebar of an empty grocery cart, bending down

down as far as he can and making the perfect right angle

grasping, grasping, grasping for a single fallen apple…..

-Lexie Harvey

Like what you see?  Want to read the rest of the poem? Stay tuned for Headwaters 2014!


Déjeuner du matin

Il a mis le café

Dans la tasse

Il a mis le lait

Dans la tasse de café

Il a mis le sucre

Dans le café au lait

Avec la petite cuiller

Il a tourné

Il a bu le café au lait

Et il a reposé la tasse

Sans me parler

Il a allumé

Une cigarette

Il a fait des ronds

Avec la fumée

Il a mis les cendres

Dans le cendrier

Sans me parler

Sans me regarder

Il s’est levé

Il a mis

Son chapeau sur son tête

Il a mis son manteau de pluie

Parce qu’il pleuvait

Et il est partie

Sous la pluie

Sans une parole

Sans me regarder

Et moi, j’ai pris

Ma tête dans ma main

Et j’ai pleuré

-Jacques Prévert, 1946


The Things Love Does for Love

In an attempt to define love I made a list of things love wasn’t

(a bridge, a car, a mirror, a friend) a butter knife peeled back

the skin of things & found love missing (even in itself). love

isn’t hiding in language but in a high school bathroom chain

smoking (next week,

I’ll hear the rumor she wrote about herself, with an unsterile

needle, after piercing her nipple.)

love is pregnant in the baker, fifteen pigeons. my god.

"love is just going through a phase"

doing everything & anything just to say, “Hello Jesse. It’s nice to

have finally met you. My name is Love.”

-James Crawford

← Older entries Page 1 of 6