unnamed colors



behind the bar, or

walking down the street
towards the place

we are meeting


and i walk past
that point of reference
towards you
and your jangled
curls, your machine-gunned, raven gazes
shooting off
in every damn direction possible-

just to have
your eyes, stop, hold
and cut
like an acetylene torch.

just to have
a few extra stupid sentences

with you,


cite any example
of us out in the world, alive
together, every time;

i try and rewire my senses
to see, to believe
the nebulae
of energy around you,
the topography of your words
and the colors of your scent.

i wish you meant it
the way i wish you meant it
when you say how excited
you are

about our future.

there is some charm made
of pure warmth, some color
i can’t pin down, just as you exist


in transit, a doppler effect
of pure emotion-


swatches of feeling
shooting off your slender heels
like cherry-ended cigarette butts,

there is some charm, a perseverance
of heat

i know i am
slated to bear

in the absence
of your lithe form
across a threshold, and

it is in the cold moments
i wait and search and wait and



all of the colors i can think of.


-for Abbie

J. Endress, USA

bluecollar love

i am accustomed to
the character of dirt.


i have plumbed the intimate secrets
of slime, filth and
grime of varied

my sleeves
are rolled
above the elbow, past
thick and inked forearm,
wrapped around
thoughtful bicep.

my shoulders
loom above
like a gantry


hold an array
of flinty local color
piled up past the ear.

i am accustomed to
the character of waste.

i have hauled the heaviest nothings
in bodies, moments and
words of scintillating

there is always work
that needs done, that’s
a constant, a given;

i would rather haul
away the countless piles
of cratered words and
oblique intent
that wither
on thorny vines


until my bones
pull towards the sky
through thin and yellowed skin

than ever suit up
for deep pressures
in the hopes that a mound
of virulent garbage
hides a gem, not again.

the forearm
will shrink,
the bicep
will quiet and
the sleeves
are not meant
to stay up

as the chips slip
from shoulders destined
to slope and shrink.

i am accustomed to
the character of hard work

and the infinite fruits
of slow permanence,


but i am very hungry.


J. Endress, USA

Garbage Poem

I want to write but

all I write is


And who wants to read that?

That’d be like

digging in the trash

to find

rotten leftovers

and expecting anyone to

eat it.

It’s not a 5-star meal.


The words start as

thoughts in my head

and end up like

garbage on the page.

Stinking of second-rate talent.

Smelling like weak attempt.

Oozing desperation.


I cling to the notion that

I should be doing


Grasping at my titles:




Hoping I can be creative in

any way.

Hoping I can still make this


So, tell me,

Who wants to read my

Garbage poem?

It may be my best yet.


J. Bodwell, USA