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Allen, R. A. |
Alleyne, Chris |
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Arnold, Sandra |
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Baber, Bill |
Baird, Meg |
Baker, J. D. |
Balaz, Joe |
Barker, Adelaide |
Barker, Tom |
Barnett, Brian |
Barry, Tina |
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Beckman, Paul |
Bellani, Arnaav |
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
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Blakey, James |
Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
Campbell, J. J. |
Cancel, Charlie |
Capshaw, Ron |
Carr, Steve |
Carrabis, Joseph |
Centorbi, David Calogero |
Christensen, Jan |
Clifton, Gary |
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Costello, Bruce |
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Crist, Kenneth James |
Cumming, Scott |
Davie, Andrew |
Davis, Michael D. |
Degani, Gay |
De Neve, M. A. |
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Doyle, John |
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Ebel, Pamela |
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Fillion, Tom |
Fortier, M. L. |
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Grech, Amy |
Greenberg, KJ Hannah |
Grey, John |
Hagerty, David |
Hardin, Scott |
Held, Shari |
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Hivner, Christopher |
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Irwin, Daniel S. |
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Larsen, Ted R. |
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Mannone, John C. |
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Myers, Jen |
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl |
Nielsen, Judith |
Onken, Bernard |
Owen, Deidre J. |
Park, Jon |
Parker, Becky |
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Prusky, Steve |
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Rosmus, Cindy |
Ross, Gary Earl |
Rowland, C. A. |
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Young, Mark |
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Zeigler, Martin |
Zimmerman, Thomas |
Zumpe, Lee Clark |
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Shy by Christopher Hivner I watch you but don’t say hi. The note you found in your mail was
from me, unsigned I know, but I meant every word. I tried to be
poetic in professing my love, like Shakespeare or Neruda, although
those two never had to work in “the severed head” or “your
eyelids flutter when you sleep.” I have mapped every step you’ve
taken for the past year so I always know where you are or where you will
be. Someday, when I get over my shyness I will introduce
myself to you and we can begin.
This Desolation by Christopher Hivner My ship has run aground on an island of shrubs and rock, my
mate is dead, and I am starving on sticks, dirt and
boiled sea water. The
remnants of the Sarah M sway in the waves, planks
breaking loose to
drift away, one more piece
of me gone. The
beach is covered in
S.O.S messages, I scan the horizon as I fish for food
to live but the waters
seem to be barren and the horizon
lost. The paper on
which I write this
last statement was
torn from a book in my trunk that
washed ashore intact. Apologies
to the author but your words were
of no comfort to me in
my weeks of need so
your pages have become my epitaph. Goodbye
to the Sarah M, my
home for two years in
my search for a
place to belong. Perhaps I have
found it after all, here on this
desolation is mayhaps where I have been
destined all along.
Night Poem by Christopher Hivner I
can’t see to write, attempting an outside vibe, but
the sun has
gone down, now I sit in the dark with an electric
poem wallowing
in my head, my handwriting in the notebook disjointed
lines forming
not so much words as hieroglyphics with no translation. Go
inside, you say, but the atmosphere is different there, artificial
light, separate
smells, no
noises of nature, only the groan of ancient water
pipes and
the slither of ghosts in the walls. If I walk away from
my outside mojo it may not follow me past the force field of
the door frame. The poem could be lost and
what if it’s the one, the lines I’ve been trying
to write for thirty years? What if it could
unlock being me or explain why people leave? What
if it’s funny and makes readers laugh? What
if it’s the last poem I ever write, one final idea that
solves everything? My ruminations have distracted me while
the poem made its escape, walking right out of
my head past
my pen. I
was a fool to think I could capture a night poem in
the light and now I have to pay the
starry muse with blank paper.
Plate Tectonics by Christopher Hivner The shift was soft at first, the movement underfoot sent
small shudders beneath my skin. The quiet from her space registered
as a temporary misfire after years of test work. I
walked room to room not seeing the cracks in the foundation, not feeling the pressure
building. Time became unbearable, words
were eaten and swallowed with a dry mouth, silence tethered us with wire pierced through our lips, drops
of blood running along the metal brace to meet in the
middle and fall to the floor. The rupture that knocked me down came
when she spoke so matter-of-factly. As our chain snapped back in my face, dead
words dropped from her mouth. I fell into an open crevasse, her voice chasing along behind. Plumes
of ash sprouted into the air obscuring her face, rumbling
like a derailed train closed around me but when she spoke again the
words still got through. We settled as the sun went down, me here, she out in the fog. I
scavenged in the rubble for a list of days, finding solace in my position as King of empty space where the doors stay shut to hide my body, wrapped in bloody wire, her words still singing in the vibrations. *****
Seeking by Christopher Hivner I walked through the fire to reach you, the flames still flaring on my skin as we touched, but instead of putting me
out you poured gasoline over my body and threw a lighter at my feet. My gait through the conflagration has
slowed but I’m on my way following your trail of sulfur. Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania
surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Monomyth and Weird
Reader. Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams
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