Cutting Room: A poem by Gregory Askew

She wears him as he’s instructed,

but not all of her has made the cut.

Ribbons of a spirit

defying her good cause,

of a yearning neither can abide,

lie in a pile off to his side;

a black flower, domestic eruption,

potent and driving,

bruises her celluloid frame,

captivating captive.

No words, no anxious assertions,

and no amount of directorial force

can erase the stain,

the sidelong grimace,

at the heart of his dream.

Only a silent contest between the two

each blind to the victory of the Other

where life-exceeding insists

                                                                                    I am...

...eternal counterpoint

to the vanity of his craft.


Perhaps Her Love

Perhaps her love is humane. She
only minding your demands out of care for your pride
or to spare you an image of yourself in abjection:
A sorry nothing, propped up by lies
woven so tight that you are nearly convinced
the look and posture are indeed you.

Yet the vestments do tear.
The world is much more
than the stage of your glory for them not.
And it has happened, time and again,
and when it does, there she abides,
amid the ruins of past ambitions,
unaffected and resolute in the mess of you,
resplendent in her uncanniness,
her ability to be in spite of nothing.

She smoothes your ruffled hair,
straightens a dog-eared collar,
assuring you nothing’s changed.
When in fact,
the world has turned in your sleep
and you’ve woken on the threshold
of a new dream.


Found One...



Child's Song w/ Photography by Lizz Swenson

Child's Song

I lie in my bed thinking of you,
just two doors down.

So small,

so new to this world.

You are alone in your dreams,
no warmth
but your own.

By my side your father, my lover snores.
Faraway he roams
from you,

faraway he roams
from me...

this stranger at my side!

While he sleeps,
I am fitfully aware, awake...

with thoughts of you,
just two doors down.

I could go to you, now.
Throw back the covers without a sound.
Take you up into my arms, tell you that I am here

for you.
But, I hesitate... something closes in me.
And I wait silently, impatiently for understanding.
Who has time for this? One-o-clock,
tick-tock, tick-tock
then suddenly something flies open
and now I see!
That I am the one alone,
there is no one
but me.

By my side your father, my lover snores.
Faraway, he roams
from you,

faraway he roams
from me.

Who is this stranger by my side sleeping?



I drank from the river.

Now the rush of its course

is all I hear.

Florian: Two lovers meet on a bridge, but tragedy rises from the water.


The Gorge: A Poem by Gregory Askew

The Gorge

I know the place where they found you
Not the exact spot, of course
But the general area,
Set between foothills of the mountains to the east:
The chill wood gorge
Where in spring
Rock walls of slate weep tendrils of moss
Through the residues of the winter’s spoils,
The peat-brown mud that renders treacherous
the inclines and moldering surfaces along the trail
Where the brooklet song of the wren
Tumbles over gnarled roots and stone
Past salamanders curled beneath logs sodden with rot

Edging an inverted pine precipitously
and on to the river below
Bird vying for an ear
over th
e susurrus of eddies and chutes
Did you hear him?

Where in summers past reckless bathers,
Harried to the hills by the city’s heat,
courted a fate same as yours
In the deep narrows where the waters pitch and bend

Where now, I imagine, those waters have since calmed,
The rains having been mild the past weeks,
And the fallen leaves of oak and fir softening the earth
Absorbed the sounds of red squirrel sprinting tree to tree
And the violence of the man who took your life.


Kiki Smith

poet. mystic. the desire to understand. terrify. animals & body. the mundane. ugly. sexuality & the feminine. enchantment. transformation.

Punctuations: A Poem by Gregory Askew


They say the end is coming

But what if the end has come

and come again?

What if worlds fall and rise anew

about us every day?

Are we ever prepared?

Are we ever?


a stranger comes upon us

at once familiar

at once known

with a form and a course

as that which greets us

assured and assuring

in the glance of a passing window

and yet…

that glance those eyes

and upon a sudden

the world falls away

for a moment

the world falls away

before the question upon which it rests

the world

there’s nothing more

and then the moment passes

…then there’s something


We grasp the hand of our lover

there it rests in ours ours


a common gesture

taking the hand of a lover

and there it rests ours

assured and assuring

and yet…

that hand resting

a sudden weight

a new gravity possessed

and for a moment

the world falls away

falls away

for a moment

before the question upon which it rests

the world the hand


there’s nothing more

and then the moment passes

…then there’s something



Ana Mendieta: Earth Body, Sculpture and Performance 1972—1985

In Camera: A Photographic Exhibition by David & Alexandra Ross

These grainy images in black and white reveal
intimate, moody glimpses into private domains. The duo used a low-tech cell phone & laptop camera to capture the stunning shots. Click on the Title to link to an in-depth review of the exhibition @ Resolution Gallery of Digital Art. *Pics from Resolution Gallery in Johannesburg, South Africa.