19-43

"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—

with a nod to Emily Dickinson

"Fear" is the thing with dark fur—
That perches on the soul—
And snacks upon the winged beasts—
That may be resting there—

And growling—in the calm—is heard—
And Heavenly's the peace—
That could allay the mangy hound
Of which so many warned—

It found me in the silent night—
With naught for hope of sleep—
It gnawed on each extremity,
Left not a crumb of me.

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Mixed Drinks

You can change how the tea leaves land.
You're not required to close your eyes
and blindly swirl.

But don't let your reader know.
She'll just go on and on
and on. Something
about the mystery or upsetting the fates:
as if they're going to raise
their heads from the loom
for just any old mug.

So if it looks as if
the leaves are about to land
and hand you a cup of misfortune
just give it one last shake, or
perhaps, dump it on the table
upside down.

You're doomed anyway.


by Brian Garrison

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Brian Garrison doesn't frequently make a habit of shameless self-promotion, but you can read more of his poetry in his chapbook New Yesterdays, New Tomorrows.

19-42

The Gilded Cross

with a nod to William Carlos Williams

so much depended
upon

a gilded wooden
cross

glazed with human
blood

beside the silver
bullets.

by William Carrion Williams

and Tara Campbell

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Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She's also the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe's Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Tweet her up at @TaraCampbellCom

19-41

Whenas Undead My Julia Goes

with a nod to Robert Herrick

Whenas undead my Julia goes,
then, then (methinks) how thickly flows
that putrefaction from her nose.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
that slick concoction each way free;
o how that glittering taketh me!

by Rotting Herrick

and Tara Campbell

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Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She's also the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe's Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Tweet her up at @TaraCampbellCom

19-40

I Plodded Lonely as a Cloud

with a nod to William Wordsworth

I plodded lonely as a cloud
That thumps outcast o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of humans, armed unto the gills;
And when young Victor spotted me
They swarmed, and I could only flee.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the sky's expanse,
Their torches marched in shuddering lines
And marked the angry mob's advance:
The trembling flames, my desperate flight,
My darkest nightmare every night.

I see flames bob above their heads
And Victor marching at the fore,
Oh, had he only kept me dead!
Instead I crouch here, friendless, poor,
Imagining the fatal day
They find my craggy hideaway.

For oft, whilst lying on the floor,
My only bedding piles of dust,
I brood and wonder, more and more,
What would have happened had I just
Not made that terrible mistake,
And tossed the girl into the lake.

by Chilliam Wordsworth

and Tara Campbell

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Tara Campbell (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction editor at Barrelhouse. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency. She's also the author of a novel, TreeVolution, and two collections, Circe's Bicycle and Midnight at the Organporium. Tweet her up at @TaraCampbellCom