Category Archives: Poetry

Keil M. Gregory

Emotionally Compartmentalized Lovemaking Is Called Fucking

When she said Deeper,

I thought how far I’d already gone;

fearing her departures even before she’d left,

wanting for our moments and instances

of effortless chemistry to never

stop boiling over.

When she said Harder,

I thought how difficult it already was;

sharing that most intimate, connected moment,

creating a space within me for her.

When she said You feel so good inside me,

I thought how my chance for that had passed;

having someone so ready to love me for who I am,

finding someone so willing to accept what I was,

how remarkable that our encounter should come to be

and how long I’d wanted that emotional connection.

When she said I won’t disappear on you,

I thought how her words seemed out of place;

a foreshadowing I denied.


Kiel M. Gregory is a poet, fiction writer, and essayist living in Sackets Harbor, NY. He attends SUNY Oswego where he studies Creative Writing and Philosophy. He co-facilitates a weekly poetry workshop at SUNY Jefferson. In addition to Gandy Dancer, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Paterson Literary Review, Lips, Great Lake Review, Black River Review, and the North Country Writers Festival.

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Natalia Vetri

Papa’s Dandelions

Radiant bushy blossoms open, lifting to greet the morning amber glow
and warm sweeping blush.

Little golden flowers whisper in a windy hush.

The Dente di Leone, the Lion’s Tooth,

needs only the slightest breeze to parachute.

Notorious for its blithe nature,

and ambitious behavior.

Nuisance, weed, garden fiend.

But let me set another scene.

Many years ago a war broke out and the whole world felt its quake.

Rome had not a scrap of food,

not even a crumb to waste.

But the dandelions grew in the county fields, and they grew abundant and true.

These tiny flowers were plucked in bundles and gathered everywhere they blew.

Resilient, glorious, sun symbol.

Papa still gathers the dandelions.

He handpicks them for a meal.

He tells us about the times they share and speaks of their appeal.

And in the evening, as the sun declines and the sky grows gradient blue,

all the flowers salute themselves, and sleep comes sweeping through.


Natalia Vetri is currently a student at Suffolk County Community College, pursuing a degree in business marketing. Natalia’s passionate about coffee and wearing corduroy bell bottoms.

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Mitchell Angelo

Escapism

Ten, maybe eleven, pigeons sit inside a crater in the Arizona flatland. Their

wings gently stretch the empty pocket walls, splitting seeds, the hock-joint-

ed boys club. A rabbit passes by and they screech before realizing it’s just a

man singing a song about one.

An orange ranch home south of the cavity claims to be an Andy Warhol

museum. The television loops a videotape of people trying on wigs. A greasy

tarantula holds my hand like a child and asks for a drink of water.

The shrine underneath the sink holds a candle inside a bucket. Hot light-

ning hits the roof and it all goes dark. Her rumble waves the room like a

wild white flag. The owner wasn’t home. I slept in his bed.

With no warning, the tenth pigeon explodes into a pile of feathers and

twigs. The remaining nine or ten pigeons take turns gnawing at his bones.

The savory beak. He is little more than a withered European mouth in the

dirt. How does that protest music go again?

The dusty Southwest rips through my window like a suicidal blue jay.

My plucky hands tremble, oily with bile. The window slams dark in shame. I

stretch myself flat against the spoiled carpet. It’ll be days before anyone

notices.


Mitchell Angelo is a creative writing major at SUNY Purchase College, and the managing editor of Gutter Mag. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer, Paintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted. 

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Jake Levyns

Faux

I knew one lover:

He loved me once.

We spit kissed in the dark,

playing Russian Roulette like our tongues were revolvers aimed at no

mouth.

If I said my body needed to feed off yours to writhe on it naturally,

you would consider our friction toxic to the environment.

We were a consequence,

embarrassed to be in the same room as the skeletons that rammed into false

skin.

If you ever tell me our side effects were intentional,

you’ll probably want to test me on you again to make sure.

Lover loved walls down.

I loved a wall.

We fucked as a secret,

under a black light lathered in each other’s shame like it hurt him to lie to

me.

If no one wanted to see a boy make contact with another boy,

why did you make it out to be a suitable possibility?

We were dead upon arrival,

improperly executed as the marriage of two bodies soaked in neither’s sweat.

Somewhere his frown is a mirror aimed at an epiphany,

but fake happy made us both look desperate to shove ourselves at each other

again.

Lover’s body turned away.

I loved his deficiency.


Jake Levyns is a poet and theatre artist currently in his final year at SUNY Plattsburgh. He served as an editorial assistant on the upcoming sixteenth issue of Saranac Review. This is his first publication.

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Amy Middleton

Spilled Coffee

I spilled my coffee and burned a hole through the earth.

The monsters that live in Earth’s core emerged and thanked me

for my help, each one shaking my hand before wandering off.

Every day passed with more and more news stories:

“Three-Headed Dragon—The Newest NFL Player!”

No one ever asked me how the monsters escaped. They only

said, “Can you believe it?” One eight-foot lizard moved in

upstairs and threw parties every night.

It was only then that I wondered if I had made a mistake.


Amy Middleton, from Westchester, New York, is a third-year student at SUNY Purchase. She is double majoring in graphic design and creative writing, with a concentration in poetry. She is on the editorial board of Italics Mine, SUNY Purchase’s literary magazine.

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Marissa N. Quiñonez

The Gland

After his suicide, they heard

a loud hum coming from inside.

They twisted its head,

sliced open the skull,

& gaped into the gland under the moonlight.

It was like the cosmos

creating the very birth, & a hairy man

dressed as a human befell

on its two legs for the first time.


Marissa N. Quiñonez studies at Fulton Montgomery Community College. She finds herself lost in her thoughts daily and appreciates all the human aspects of us. She enjoys expressing her thoughts to the rest of the world.

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Mitchell Angelo

PASSING

From up your gullet crawls puberty’s

late bloom. A goose eats the letters in

your name like jelly beans. He hides inside

a pulped chamber, sleeps in the pits

and fissures. Hissing with all those

ugly teeth. Molars ripen next to

the carrots, julienned.

I sit on the subway neighboring possums.

They read newspapers and drink wet coffee.

One wears a jade necklace and pats his plump

middle. It’s embarrassing, really, finding him

wearing all that costume jewelry. Slimy-toed,

greasy-palmed, pale sprout. I carry a dagger in my red

backpack. I do not know the difference between us

at times. A coyote steps onto the train; a bright purple

fear pours across the platform. His abdomen

produces a hand and waves. I swallow it whole

like a real man.


Mitchell Angelo is a creative writing major at SUNY Purchase College, and the managing editor of Gutter Mag. His work has previously appeared in Gandy Dancer, Paintbucket.page, and The Westchester Review. His microwave is haunted.

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Miranda Phillips

Into the West

Alberta is a blank sketchpad

to the eyes trained for neon lights and mishaps

labeled modern art, unable to see past

their tawny smog and blue lights—this is a private gallery.

A winter’s sunrise stroked pastel lavender

by the blackbird’s feather drifting above a cerulean lake

dusted with glitter. Strands of shredded cotton balls

curl upwards from the silent surface.

The ridge of mountains sprayed

deep forest green. The graffitist’s thumb slipped on

the nozzle as he turned to call back to his friend. Changing cans,

spritzes of sunshine fall gently on scarlet leaves.

The roads etched in charcoal,

long and straight. Halfway through, the child’s hand

grew weary of gripping the two yellow crayons

and he wandered home for a snack.

A herd of cows blotted cream and chocolate in oil pastels,

trembling in gnarled fingers on a nursing home porch.

Just a smear as they graze high in the hills.

The crimson orb dips into black soil, tugged by the flick

of a rainbow tail under the ice, stars poking through

the thickening cloth of night until the moon

is our only spotlight.


Miranda Phillips is a creative writing major at SUNY Oswego. When she isn’t working on her novel series, Miranda spends her time discovering new scenic routes, watching hockey (#mapleleafsforever), and loving on her rescue horse during breaks in her home state of Maryland.

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Daniel Fleischman

To gully

Settlers dispute by a muddy creek

over land rights and property but

patience erodes, and a gully knife

stays with the body it sliced.

A gully guts a man;

gully

gul·ly | \‘gə-lē \

(noun)

1 : a large knife

2 : a trench which was originally worn in the earth by running water

and through which water often runs after it rains

3 : a small valley or gulch

(verb)

gullied ; gullying

transitive verb

: to make gullies in

intransitive verb

: to undergo erosion : form gullies

A gully guts the earth.

A boy in Converse slides down slopes of dried leaves,

leaving trails of bare mud exposed.

Before they happen upon an oversized knife—

life stolen by the gully.

Time is both body and landscape, forever changing

forms, but experience sticks in our minds.


Daniel Fleischman is a senior at SUNY Geneseo. He studies creative writing and biology because he believes salamanders are worth writing about, too. At home in Ossining, New York, he can be found running into spiderwebs as he daydreams in nature preserves or admiring his pet cocker spaniel between budget horror movies.

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Lili Gourley

anatomy of a drunk record

everlasting rounds,

mountains that create

breathable noise.

we listen when we’re

drunk, when our

minds are no longer

ours to control.

repeated scratching

makes me dance,

divine unconsciousness,

we pull out another record

when all that’s left

of the last is

grain.

I groan when the

noise stops,

never stop,

never stop.

I sink into corduroy

cushion.

sit by me

so I know the

world isn’t truly

spinning.


Lili Gourley is a young writer, graduating Monroe Community College with an Associates in creative writing. She focuses on poetry and short fiction, often drawing inspiration and titles for her work from music and nature. She has been published in ANGLES and Gandy Dancer and intends to publish more of her poetry in the future.

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