19 Apr

Maybe it’s rude or not cool to talk like this, but who am I so I’ll say it: my last three rejections from Sixth Finch have echoed “These are so close! Keep trying!” which could mean any number of things, but after reading that new digital stack of goodness the Sixth Finch crew has assembled, I’m kind of like “Shooo-weee, I’m glad they said no.” Sincerely, honestly, down right, my poems don’t belong in this issue, or any of their issues yet. Sixth Finch is one of my two or three go-to-the-day-it-drops poetry journals and they haven’t let up, man.

Like “Lying” by Molly Brodak, fleeting and contemplative, and I feel kinda how I feel in a big used bookstore, the centuries of thoughts in stacks, the unending search, here collapsed, compressed, into this neat little pile.

Like “The Seep-Child” by G.C. Waldrep, a growing flame about fire and the burning and people, how they burn, and here in this word hunk, I follow, amazed at how it moves and shines, this idea of fire pushed and pressed on and on.

Like “from Pink and Grey” by Dan Boehl, this reminder of how inside a simple scene, a moment, always this hulking gap, this hunk of missing.

And the art, too, snagging its own rightful spot alongside the words, always crisp, startling depictions of thewhat’s up.


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