• #11Forklift, Ohio: Issue #11
  • #12Forklift, Ohio: Issue #12
  • #13Forklift, Ohio: Issue #13
  • #14Forklift, Ohio: Issue #14
  • #15Forklift, Ohio: Issue #15
  • #16Forklift, Ohio: Issue #16
  • #17Forklift, Ohio: Issue #17
  • #18Forklift, Ohio: Issue #18
  • #19Forklift, Ohio: Issue #19
  • #20Forklift, Ohio: Issue #20
  • #21Forklift, Ohio: Issue #21
  • #22Forklift, Ohio: Issue #22
  • #23Forklift, Ohio: Issue #23
  • #24Forklift, Oeno: Bin #24
  • #25Forklift, Ohio: Issue #25
  • #26Forklift, Ohio: Issue #26
  • #27Forklift, Ohio: Issue #27
  • #28Forklift, Ohio: Issue #28
  • #29-30Forklift, Ohio: Issue #29-30
  • #31Forklift, Ohio: Issue #31
  • #32Forklift, Ohio: Issue #32
  • #33Forklift, Ohio: Issue #33
  • #34Forklift, Ohio: Issue #34
  • #35-36Forklift, Ohio: Issue #35-36
  • #37Forklift, Ohio: Issue #37


Michael Bazzett


And then the new king announced:

All poems
except poems
about forbidden 
poems are forbidden.

And I lifted my head and shouted:

I am not shouting
except to shout
that shouting
is not allowed.

The jail was cold and smelled like a dog.

Emily Bludworth de Barios

Packages show up on the lawn it is astonishing how they appear.

Packages show up on the lawn it is astonishing how they appear.

They are astonishing surprises.

It’s what I ordered the cat food the espresso machine the two new tables.

Ordering things and how they appear basically I am a small-scale sorcerer.

On the road I press the button and the music goes.

Air conditioning     gas pedal     restaurant take-out etc.

It is my will being perpetually sated.

Pretend we are writing a fable in which a sorcerer always gets what he wants.

Consider what happens to a soul which always gets what it wants.

Karen Harryman

Science Fiction

They used to swim through the old neighborhood. Sometimes, past the school. Swollen covers of books still littered the surface water. She missed her children. And her arms. 

F. Daniel Rzicznek

Projected on the Ceiling of a Nashville Hotel Room

The unfamiliar river,
lit by a Taco Bell,
beckons within a cruel locality.
You draw the bath.

Your hatred is in rags—
tattered like a flag flown
too long above the boatyard.

Across the missing sea
your fugue gestures
in echoes, hating
the new black glasses:
frames thick as shore,
lenses thinner than knives.

It’s the impossibility
of threes
that returns you to threes.

You want to change the record
but there is none.
You hate the next style,
whatever it will be. Water
curtains you in wisdom—
wisdom, but also umbrage.

You dream you are a tree
surgeon, but you are not 
a tree surgeon. You dream
you are John Prine.

You are not John Prine.

  Davy Knittle

treading scheme 

so the bear does sit in the woods 
saves a rained on flag for me 
I tire of brambleberries 
she and I get an extension on our tent
the day clouds and 
the lake loses the scenery 
so I do decide to drive the borrowed car 
make my way in the town 
I like her voice
and want her to use it 
to sew us together 
like this snow when I can get it 
like a lake I can sit on and not fall in
I think someone knows about our spot
we have other things to eat
our missions and means 
what bear can say he knows the woods
where he most likes to sit 
who’s her baby I know it’s me 
still she comes to tell me 
she selects me every time 
she does it with spunk in her ears and eyes 
she’s not a bunny just the junction of my reach 
I’m a squirrel and not the same one
as several days ago
though he was good too 
I do good things with my fur
nice to have furry thighs right now 
I think I could be a mascot 
even without a team 
she and I are just day hikers
we lick the wind that licks in us  
we cover the earth with our feet

Adam Edelman

Walking Home from the Hospital

I’m tweaking the sticky knobs and breathing 

on both mountains, the first few glow worms don’t even

exist yet. I sweep some ash from a black pinecone

to prove this is what it feels like

to have one note in my breast pocket, to find

some shade and stand there an hour, not knowing

what my fingers do. That’s when I have to kiss the buttons

on my long sleeve or bend my hand like a sunflower to open up

a bag of pears. I turn to a bird feeder. I pick up a vulture

feather and stick it to my forehead while my tongue goes numb.

Nina Puro

Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love

I don’t know anything about getting old
but I think there’s a hidden lake

between our houses, and in its depths
an undiscovered color akin to ferns 

we’ll  wear someday. 
Tables don’t fold themselves

even if knees do. I think we have to ask 
the guards to step off stage.

I don’t think we were chosen,
but if one of us will be, it’s you. Arteries

don’t have lights. We’ll never see
the blue inside our arms, but I’ve started to not mind

my fear. Didn’t want to stand near a man 
so I didn’t. We know the map’s drawn wrong 

but we work what we have. I wake up
& layer types of static. Stamen as afternoon.

I can’t wake up without seeing faces
under a lake. Mouthful of pollen. Season

as aperture.  The seep of humans. I’m waiting
for the kind ones to tire

of their new toy.  Girl as paper bag 
ripped where the grease soaks through. 

In the movies the sidekick says to the hero
go on without me— don’t look back!

I’m the one saying that
to all of you.