' P I D E R      1

C h r i s H o s e a 
  /   Lithe Brunette, Twenty-Three Years of Age  
                                         Thoughtful, Fashionable Blonde, Late-Twenties

B e e f  O v e n   /   Gimme The Blood
                                     Honey Bee
                                     Fake Palm Tree 

A s h  R e i t e r  
  /   Little Black Star   

T y l e r F l y n n D o r h o l t   
  /   Let Me Leave it Here   

D e b r a h  M o r k u n    /   PINGALA.  

B e e f O v e n

3 songs

Honey Bee

Fake Palm Tree

Gimme The Blood

C h r i s H o s e a

Lithe Brunette, Twenty-Three Years of Age

In my hand walks Kansas called
bodies mostly cloudy, white in flash.
Powders blurs skins what was once
a comfy couch. Spectacles not brittle
not funny, we're in agreement to
radiate the cell of you and me.
Crowded moving emotions on film
so the crowd nods or doesn't go, and
each bit player makes mordant comment.
What is today that was eleven hours since
horror and the blank page became
an ironic pose a thrill sportif graffiti.
Oh you know, everyone, just all of them
that weren't us. She learns to drift
the testament toward shoppers and ice.
You could be embarrassed pouring milk
in a mixed drink under a bridge
but such is your vocation. Right on her
dancing dress you never touched too
just drown the mighty wedges, a way
to get away. Drop fingertips in selected woods.

Thoughtful, Fashionable Blonde, Late-Twenties

To murder time, one last dime 
drops poison in social media pages.
Reach out and bend the covers back
to break the spine for once that day
a sweet ramble someone you'd not dreamed
of peeling apples for the administrator.
And only partly clad ambling up an oak
calling it the routing anger of a jag.
Split-second glances meaning comment later
warm us to strangers as if arrows small
as needles popped the barks. We are wanting
and find slow slow pulses hardly known
to catalogue a far-off nerd with a warm hand.
This is too close to the bone so fade to white.
Outlets reach peak flow the last plastic
organizers tumble from roof racks.
Nourishment wrapped in cellophane rots.
Grateful eyes live longer in welcome hosts.
And penned and passed over again
for an unseen throng an everyman extra
gets credit for doing the sensible thing
and putting the trained cat out, changing the mood,
and the house lights, gas, come up.

T y l e r F l y n n D o r h o l t

from Let Me Leave it Here

to move & see from that which is temporary & private 

They say it’s going to get a little better / Spring is  time 
itself / the touch  and go only  turns  into  a  docking / I 
was  eager  for  the   nets  to   go  up  /  the  cut  directly 
between the eyes / bleeding onward. 

Some  creeks   lead  into  Indian  burial  grounds  / to 
highway rest areas / which lead to bees in soda cans / 
I am led to  where  pigeons  are sitting down / a sign of 
dogged  invectives paraphrased  by flight / total style of 
squaring you  into  visions  into how small the morning 
room is  /  how  cold  of  a  decision was  made when / a 
body did not speak did not /  like hers /  from  cottons 

We made  it  all   out  in  a field / I had a preference for 
cinematic  references  /  the  historic  occasion  of frogs 
dropping in magnolias / the late charges.

And  little  rows  glow  now /  it  gets  a  little  better in 
Spring /  no  wonder  as  to  how a lantern splashes the 
jacket mittens the pier  /  I was out last night and late / 
I mean it was raining and never warm. 

to move & see from that which is temporary & private 

They say it’s going to get a little worse /  the  curse is that 
nobody wants to say networking / but that is what this is 
/ the position a body  takes in knowing death was it / the 
nose-running  season  / neighbors  continuously  building 

Merlot in the  mouth /  I have to  stop using the things I 
know belly buttons are  a terrible disconnect  /  throwing 
up is general /  bubble baths drew great attention toward 
/  sticking  a  toe  in  the   Jacuzzi   holes  /  the   rush   of 
something keening. 

Ears  pierced  at  twelve  habit of / building ramps out of 
mud  /  stealing  lighters  and  blowing  them  up  /  in a 
bullhead’s belly the  rattle of  a  bike  over the bridge the 
portion of  loud-mouthing  / minimal  in  the  morning / 
laying  there  on  the  ice  crippling slits  of  wind-turned 

On  the  arm  laid  out  the   fish house  I.V.  /  minnows 
cryptic   but   resplendent  /   the multiple   uses   for 
something luminous / and it  gets a little worse  belts are 
lost / eyebrows slink below the eyes / and creep into the 
bones / cheeks and the bone position / the neck took in 
the face taking face taken.

to move & see from that which is temporary & private 

They say  it’s  going  to  get  a  little  worse  /  conditions 
darken  /  the  urban  body  is  compromised  /  death  is 
sureness / sea and forest the same. 

And  how  I  drastically  reimagine  /  my  youth  as  one 
complicated /  by  setting  / the  setting  of  snake skin / 
settling on the lake / the geography of overhearing. 

The dock that wants in on the cabin / the woman was in 
the  hold  a mountain /  the  man a  road /  arms  around 
backs  /   in   walking   make   wings  /  night   swimming 

Progressing  always  with  new cracks /  at the glance ice 
sheets kicked / off buildings / the sky is not scraped / it 
is conducted / she dismantled the frame. 

Legs are collected close / many spaces in between / how 
I spoke slowly through midnight / the failure to sleep / 
streetlight lowering / breaking the window of the hotel 
bending / unreach they say unreach. 

A s h R e i t e r

Little Black Star (a John Jacob Niles Cover)

D e b r a h M o r k u n



lavender buds sent over
on the ferry
each year, we in this prison lot
sell our beads
to the captains of
the train
that goes over the border

a bushel of prisoners’
sold to the men
who drive
the trains


i’ve got your
standing next to
the armory
your pink city


we are shining, and I can’t see beyond the city, by-ways
we are shining with tickets to the steamship

we are a shining place name, where the river is the ocean is the desert is the sea and the city where his antlers poke through

shining in the lobster town, torched-out glances
to see fire we went to the local reproduction of the holocaust
home-made replica, sewn by our mothers in the back lot
of the churches, motley firmament

they swore they were shining when mother left them for the birds to feast upon,
when they were gobbled up by the birds in their harvest

and the nest, of course, where the children were left after birth
they left their clothes, their infant clothes, and swore like a cocoon
they would find them once they gingerly removed their sacred cloaks
standing bare before the bruised children of the isle
who have come to keep the surf a hand-washed ornament


invisible. reef thorns dawn.

we drove hammers. we moved
across the country
and the toads

and the flag-fishers:
cenotaphs, carry us

carry us, soldiers
carry us into the backroom of the harem yard where the girls are counting figs

carry us cenotaphs, for the mercy of the prison guard comes later than our grandmothers spooning one cup of desert sand into the last tartar’s pot

carry us down the back road and closer to the ferris wheel, where our brothers stand making sense of circular motions, ginger wings



in the halls of saints
we piled sword
upon sword
and kept fighting

kept our two-selves
split, one in the background
and one of us the cenotaph –

a putrid shell of a shanty town
flag-fishers, the flags of generic
heaven, plaques celebrating
the last man standing


second deviation. continuation in the direction of the first impulse
toward water. resulting stamina

again, the second deviation. the standard way to understand the cyclops as he pulls out his ruler to measure the sun

before the first impulse. the cyclone lane jammed with post-war lilacs

again, the second deviation. city commerce. in the backyard of the lumber field we create a cannon so large we cramp/camp in playing fields shielding time historical

weather reports no longer make sense eight years after you hear them


I heard them singing to the sea / I saw them collecting their eyes from the parlor mat so they could make out the apparitions of the children on the ferry boat more clearly

I saw them give themselves over to the fallen churches / I heard them singing the names of their children to the shrines where they left their babies unguarded

I saw them pewter-like / they were carved. fossil fuels. steam of metal factories

I saw them break / a thousand people stood upright against the tenement building, my heart pounds as the usher removes my father from this book of history and puts him in the used car lot, grieving

They fell apart / they gutter-sniped the stone throne like interlopers ready to get in between the news and the honey jars of this singing sea

No more golden arrows to sell them / no more children like this on the beach


Wilderness, path of access

to the south, we see
silver eagles

over the hills, we see
her golden skirts

this is explicit: whomsoever
shall bronze

the demi-gods

will blank-out


O Human Activity on this moral plane.

Blood-vessel. there is
a tradition of
eternity, there is

a tradition of hoisting
two broken souls
into the sky

to see if they still bare