the break wall, opening
the open sea like a long polished wound,
baffling the wind
with a force mustered from currents
where free is
unfathomable as the drowned book,
barnacled as if born and raised
between Aphrodite and the devil’s thumb
a whale heaves out a whale-tail
flaunting sunken love at the sunned earth Only the Surface Breaks 04.15.2019
The rain had just finished saying,
This block is mine.
The kind of rain where you could sleep through two breakthroughs and still have enough left to belly sing in the ambrosial hour.
Blood pellets in the dusk & dashes of hail were perfect for finding new stashes; that is to say, visitations were never announced.
A broken umbrella handle posed a question by the day care center.
We Used To Call it Puerto Rico Rain 10.29.2018
In conversation with A Hill in the South Bronx , by Perla de Leon
Estoy buscando un árbol que me de sombra
Porque el que tengo me lo van a cortar Coro de bomba
This building stands,
the last tree to be cut down
in a garden of brick and steel
made desert of rubble and dust. Buscando un árbol que me de sombra 10.29.2018
RICARDO ALBERTO MALDONADO
21 de septiembre de 2017: “pero estamos vivos”
Two: home dos tres dos tres two: Mother.
lápiz. One pen. One ocean between us. Six: Home. Bounty 10.29.2018
Lucid dreaming is not a job but a steady occupation
I do not have a big dream they are only little dreams
and right now I cannot think of one
My father read the paper while my mother scrubbed the floor
I pay a woman $100 a week to help me keep my house clean
Josey picks me up at work in a car we bought
together, car she dug out of frozen slush for hours.
She picks me up and gives me roses. Valentine’s Day. Red Light Roses 10.29.2018
October 16, 2018
In that year of a shot to the head where were you the first time you broke night?
When you break night, you learn that one puff, under the right circumstance, can give you the right perspective.
You learn to pick up stories that fall & slip on the right side of knowing.
Breaking Night 10.16.2018
February 23, 2018
Music by GREGORY W. BROWN
“I have made
an elegy for myself it
Geoffrey Hill, i.m., 1932 – 2016
1. The Meeting of the Waters
Sempiternal waters, sing-
ly sing, gush glottal-less & all
triphthong’s liquid pluraling
through rock & ruck & rill February 2018 Poetry Feature 02.23.2018
April 20, 2017
The Common we’re welcoming spring with new poetry by our contributors. (Be sure to listen to the audio link to Megan Fernandes’ “White People Always Want to Tell Me…,” read by the author.) March 2017 Poetry Feature 04.20.2017
Once in a car, a good boy
shook me hard. If you like it
that way in bed, then why are you…
the tiny bruises on my arms
where his prints pressed into my pink
sleeves rose to the surface like rattles. Good Boys 04.15.2017