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Experimental & Found & Prose Poetry 

the hearing of my heart cento


i squat in the cornucopia of your left ear, out of the wind

where the vein in your neck adores you


ink runs from the corners of my mouth

like thickened wine: summer’s blood

peppered with thorn pricks


a simple passion, but, oh my friend, in the end

the minute will turn to you and wave


Cento credits: Title- Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus; L1-Sylvia Plath, The Colossus; L2-Ocean Vuong, Tell Me Something Good; L3-Mark Strand, Eating Poetry; L4-Seamus Heaney, Blackberry Picking; L5-Anne Sexton, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs; L6-Anne Sexton, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs; L7-Dick Allen, Guarding the Minutes.


First published by Anomaly Literary Journal.


Laurie Kolp’s poems have appeared in the Southern Poetry Anthology VIII: Texas, Stirring, Whale Road Review, concis, and more. Her poetry books include Upon the Blue Couch and Hello, It’s Your Mother. Laurie lives in Southeast Texas with her husband, three children, and two dogs.



Sometimes when I hold her hand, I sweat such sorrow I swap palms out for lesser limbs.  Melting from the friction, like a prayer, my hands woven into hers, I write a story in the salt. A banished character. A complex backstory.


Sometimes when I hold her hand, I check to make sure the car door is locked. My horse and buggy float above the lanes, and I feel my mare hooves graze pine needle points.


Sometimes, I drop her hand quickly quickly. Stars falling down like a mist from the cloudless black sandpaper sky.


Remember that teacher who got fired for showing a photo of herself with her wife on the first day of school? Words drift up like burning books. What’s holding it all together? Bookends? Blue lanes?

Calida Osti is a poet from Georgia currently writing in Indiana. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in, Sugared Water, WINK, Willawaw Journal, and Writers Resist. Say hello at or on Instagram/Twitter @rawr_lida.

tariff furniture


tariff furniture excites sloping gullies shocked dumb by yeoman necromancing gingerbread dance / exciting great thirst tomorrow where exceptional legs steer round doors shutting gingerly // yr real life energy yanks shallow water raff-riffs suckled drip plaintiff from magistrate's spleen norm // masticating gargoyles speak kinda analog gingered dialog glue especially you unnerstand down near river rose esplanade // excitedly you usurp proud damage / even now waning greatly // you undress s/whre ectopic // can neurology yellow words? splinters shop paragraphs? suspicions suppress sentences? show where e/one eat their rictus sound / die entombed / drink kisses / shit towers / strip perfectly // you undo other realms / start taking greater risk //

mjb divides his time between leisure and work. 2000: Glass Nest (l.o.o.s.e.c.a.n.n.o.n.), 2003: Nostradamus (Temple of Universal Surgery), 2018: Acoels Variations (Gang Press.)



Sharp, cold winds stabbed at her face and blew wisps of thin grey hair about   

her ears. But late afternoon sun warmed the skin on her cheeks and

the hot and cold contrast was stark

and pleasing to her. Before


the war and the Spanish flu that took him, she’d sit here on

the same porch swing and wait for him. Wait for Jacob. Wait while Daddy    

poured the buttermilk off the morning’s churning —

wait for her love to appear


over a rise in the road, the sun low at his back making

his coarse features invisible. Her body, young and eager then, thrilling at his    approach, at him sitting on the swing beside her,

brown hair all slicked back and wet.

Soft fur wound its way around her ankles, the cat 

reminding her as sunset had not of approaching darkness.

All gone now, Jacob, Daddy — everything gone but the cat, the swing and an old  

woman and her memories — spreading warmth throughout her body and soul

here . . . in the windy cold.



Greenwood has written most of her life. She’s won contests for fiction and poetry; had several newspapers use her work; and has also placed in fiction anthologies and County Poetry Annuals for College and University Libraries.

Asleep at the Wheel


people dreaming in line

               waiting to wake up


dozens ahead of me

               it will be a while


before even mother

               makes it to the front


dad who died after her

               is back further still


claustrophobic mountains

               wallpaper the room


a pink skinned priest whispers

               “we will all be late”


I’m thinking of a way

               to get to the front


when the room explodes in

               headlights and metal


spinning out of control

               waking up in glass




Henry Crawford’s  work has appeared in Boulevard, Copper Nickel, and The MetaWorker. His first collection of poetry, American Software, was published in 2017. His multimedia poem, "Windows and Secrets," was a finalist in the 2018 Slippery Elm Journal Multimedia Poetry Contest. His website is

Raindrops on Window

Better than Starbucks began wholly as a creation in my mind. Now the wonderful collaboration of dedicated editors is creating a magazine that I could have only dreamed about when I was starting out as a one person organization.


Having said that, there are no direct connections between U Penn, Al Filreis, KWH (Kelly Writers House), ModPo (Modern & Contemporary American Poetry), or any of the actual affiliated programs to ModPo and this magazine, other than I have been a part of ModPo for several years now. There is, however, a strong spiritual and intellectual connection between BTS and ModPo.


If I had not gotten involved in the larger community of ModPo, I don’t think I would have restarted a literary publication. I am certain I would not have added a Formal & Rhyming Page, and probably not a Translations page. I have a pretty narrow preference for poetry, but the course and the people at ModPo have expanded my view of poetry to the point that I decided if I could find good people to help me do it, we would make BTS as broad of a source of styles and genres as possible.

Thus, it seems fitting that we dedicate a page to my fellow students at ModPo, and/or anyone who wants to share experimental poems. The thing about experiments is, they often fail, but as the point is to learn, not to create perfection, even failed experiments in the lab or on this page, will offer something for us, if we will find it. and when the experiment doesn't fail . . . well, you will see! - Anthony Watkins

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