Issue 19




from Scorpions


Joel Chace







Then comes the fit again.  And pain has its own


hierarchy.  His malarkey won a major


prize.  Reprise your prefatory remarks:


be the duck; see the tall; tease the robbery.


Stings on the wins of her darts.  Heart’s needles, three,


and one sad son  --  a whole family on the run.







Dumb show, with King and Queen.  What’s been, has-been?


Regime claims its victory over moss.  The cost


of aureoles has left us dry.  Why do scientists


refuse to rest, fail their own tests, soil


their own next  --  hosts that bear the knives themselves?







Top shelved; motion melted:  both held so under


fortune.  Her tune won the award, then was promptly


never played again.  As plain as the nose on


your face means find the nearest mirror.


Arrears can work all right as long as


one is allowed to inhabit them.


Rhythm blizzards; rhyme sweeps in; the readiness is all.







Haul and hoist, moving grief, to prove relief might exist.


The twist, in this case, occurred in Chapter One.


Never shall sun that morrow see.  When that decree


went forth, the language changed.  Bang, bang, bang went


the folly; fang, fang, fang into hell; swang, swang,


swang went our sisters into bondage, as


our brothers were converted into swells.










Joel Chace has published work in print and electronic magazines such as The Tip of the Knife, Counterexample Poetics, OR, Country Music, Infinity’s Kitchen and Jacket.  He has published more than a dozen print and electronic collections, most recently Sharpsburg (Cy Gist Press), Blake’s Tree (Blue & Yellow Dog Press), Whole Cloth (Avantacular Press), Red Power (Quarter After Press), Kansoz (Knives, Forks, and Spoons Press) and Web Too (Tonerworks). 



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