The Palace Saloon
︎︎︎ T. Garrison O'Donnell
︎ Oct 15, 2026
I lean to Bubba’s key & snort a bump
in the bathroom, & the guy in the suit
who goes after me, name’s Hank, great
hang, he works for the district attorney.
The country boys in camo shooting pool
were spawned in some back swamp bayou
& look like the banjo player from The
Deliverance, an effete grad student with
big glasses leans on the bar & bores
a blonde Tri Delt with his opinions on
Lacan’s jouissance, Sweet T’s doing sake
bombs between kissing some girl with
bangs who looks young enough to be going
to prom, & me,
now I’m talking to
two girls who at this point for all I know
(so drunk!) could be my students. Belly
button rings glint on tan guts in the light
through cigarette smoke, someone hands
me a jaybird & I toke: tomorrow I’ll puke
in the sink & vow to change my life,
but right now at the Palace: I’m a Prince.
in the bathroom, & the guy in the suit
who goes after me, name’s Hank, great
hang, he works for the district attorney.
The country boys in camo shooting pool
were spawned in some back swamp bayou
& look like the banjo player from The
Deliverance, an effete grad student with
big glasses leans on the bar & bores
a blonde Tri Delt with his opinions on
Lacan’s jouissance, Sweet T’s doing sake
bombs between kissing some girl with
bangs who looks young enough to be going
to prom, & me,
now I’m talking to
two girls who at this point for all I know
(so drunk!) could be my students. Belly
button rings glint on tan guts in the light
through cigarette smoke, someone hands
me a jaybird & I toke: tomorrow I’ll puke
in the sink & vow to change my life,
but right now at the Palace: I’m a Prince.
T. Garrison O'Donnell is a poet from Virginia now living in the Panhandle of Florida.
Also by T.: Western
October in Oakland
︎︎︎ Curtis Yarvin
︎ Oct 14, 2026
The fate of these hills rests in the race
Of drizzle and spark. Rock and wind,
Patient and permanent and clean,
Stand on their seats. “Men are fools
To invest in real estate,” still
There is nothing here to trust but man.
How eager this mat of burrs and hay,
Not fruit or fodder, shade or lumber,
A menace to the little long-haired dog,
To not soak and rot from brown to gray?
The roofer’s cigarette, the wind-bit wire
Are every element’s first prayer.
Even the rain prefers black dust,
Ripe with vitamins of spring.
Nature is our enemy. It always was.
We exist only against its will.
If men were made of Plato’s metals
It would not matter, but our leaky bonds,
Our trust as often breached as made,
The shattered hairs in our DNA,
The knots of long imperfect lives,
The monkey-mess of failure and lies,
The state entangled in papers and bills,
Stir anger in these ordered gods:
And house and child, wife and dog
Drip in the rain, run from the flame.
Even the rock rocks from its faults,
Cracking our counterfeit concrete,
As winter winds bend the windows
And drain the gas between the panes.
I have lived over fifty years
And found nothing to add to Heraclitus.
I have lost the art of saying two things
In one line. I seem not to need it.
“I like to see the seasons come round
In good order.” If you marry me
You will see my body, as I saw
My wife’s before you. Have I said
This before? I have. An owl hoots.
From the glowing city spread below
Comes midnight’s distant auto hum
And now and then a long low boom.
Of drizzle and spark. Rock and wind,
Patient and permanent and clean,
Stand on their seats. “Men are fools
To invest in real estate,” still
There is nothing here to trust but man.
How eager this mat of burrs and hay,
Not fruit or fodder, shade or lumber,
A menace to the little long-haired dog,
To not soak and rot from brown to gray?
The roofer’s cigarette, the wind-bit wire
Are every element’s first prayer.
Even the rain prefers black dust,
Ripe with vitamins of spring.
Nature is our enemy. It always was.
We exist only against its will.
If men were made of Plato’s metals
It would not matter, but our leaky bonds,
Our trust as often breached as made,
The shattered hairs in our DNA,
The knots of long imperfect lives,
The monkey-mess of failure and lies,
The state entangled in papers and bills,
Stir anger in these ordered gods:
And house and child, wife and dog
Drip in the rain, run from the flame.
Even the rock rocks from its faults,
Cracking our counterfeit concrete,
As winter winds bend the windows
And drain the gas between the panes.
I have lived over fifty years
And found nothing to add to Heraclitus.
I have lost the art of saying two things
In one line. I seem not to need it.
“I like to see the seasons come round
In good order.” If you marry me
You will see my body, as I saw
My wife’s before you. Have I said
This before? I have. An owl hoots.
From the glowing city spread below
Comes midnight’s distant auto hum
And now and then a long low boom.
EROS
︎︎︎ Cole Henry Forster
︎ Oct 13, 2026
Eros the banal, eros the disobedient,
Eros on the 5 o’clock news, a reel about Eros,
bookmarking Eros to watch Eros on my phone later,
Eros manifestly stupid, still bound to the dining chair,
and the guests will wonder why the sheets in the guestroom
look like that and it’s also because of Eros.
But when Eros goes old-school, steps to the ledge,
says “σ'αγαπώ,”
beckons to love,
what direction is he facing?
Which god is invoked?
And please, please don’t make me finger you again,
at this restaurant, with everyone eating Caesar salad.
Don’t make me do that
because I might actually have a nice time.
Eros on the 5 o’clock news, a reel about Eros,
bookmarking Eros to watch Eros on my phone later,
Eros manifestly stupid, still bound to the dining chair,
and the guests will wonder why the sheets in the guestroom
look like that and it’s also because of Eros.
But when Eros goes old-school, steps to the ledge,
says “σ'αγαπώ,”
beckons to love,
what direction is he facing?
Which god is invoked?
And please, please don’t make me finger you again,
at this restaurant, with everyone eating Caesar salad.
Don’t make me do that
because I might actually have a nice time.
Cole Henry Forster is a poet living in Ottawa. His forthcoming collection Marble Afternoons will be published in 2027 by Prickly Exports in Montreal.
Also by Cole: GALILEE
Songs of New England
︎︎︎ C. Sandbatch
︎ Oct 10, 2026
I. Invocatio
(Andante religioso)
May I summon you with belief, or some tawdry ancient thing?
A lock of hair, a splintered nail, two birds that will not sing?
In older times, we had our little gods, blood upon the stone;
I’ve lately caught the awful, recent shrift of suffering alone.
So let the learned keep their proofs, the pious farm their dread;
I’ll take our little lie of love and lay it in our bed.
And when the final morning comes, and all the heavens cease,
I’ll ask no resurrection of love, nor days of snowblind peace...
Only that somewhere, once again, beneath a mortal sky,
You turn to hear me call your name, and do not pass me by.
II. Circulus
(Scherzo interrogativo)
Would, would we? Would we know
at the end?
Ways to teach any loop to grow past
an old familiar bend
Could we know, or find a way
to finally stand?
Should we smash our loops & loose our
feet from sand?
Would we know, if we saw, drops of water,
beginning rivers grand?
Do mountains start, here, or end?
Tell me, my deepest, oldest friend!
III. Reditus
(Adagio lamentoso)
Now that grand river drops as grief
Thoughts of having stayed too long
I am so far from my home, rolling
Already back my mind to then
High, wrong winds Last of lights
Mountain after mountains
Loose their yellowing leaves.
Only the light upon the leaves
Passeth now. Return agayne.
(Andante religioso)
May I summon you with belief, or some tawdry ancient thing?
A lock of hair, a splintered nail, two birds that will not sing?
In older times, we had our little gods, blood upon the stone;
I’ve lately caught the awful, recent shrift of suffering alone.
So let the learned keep their proofs, the pious farm their dread;
I’ll take our little lie of love and lay it in our bed.
And when the final morning comes, and all the heavens cease,
I’ll ask no resurrection of love, nor days of snowblind peace...
Only that somewhere, once again, beneath a mortal sky,
You turn to hear me call your name, and do not pass me by.
II. Circulus
(Scherzo interrogativo)
Would, would we? Would we know
at the end?
Ways to teach any loop to grow past
an old familiar bend
Could we know, or find a way
to finally stand?
Should we smash our loops & loose our
feet from sand?
Would we know, if we saw, drops of water,
beginning rivers grand?
Do mountains start, here, or end?
Tell me, my deepest, oldest friend!
III. Reditus
(Adagio lamentoso)
Now that grand river drops as grief
Thoughts of having stayed too long
I am so far from my home, rolling
Already back my mind to then
High, wrong winds Last of lights
Mountain after mountains
Loose their yellowing leaves.
Only the light upon the leaves
Passeth now. Return agayne.
HAIKU (#CC80)
︎︎︎ John Eyck
︎ Oct 9, 2026
Memory bells ringing
brilliant blue & red forty
ants on the cupcakes
brilliant blue & red forty
ants on the cupcakes