Issue VI

All of the poems written had their own power of insight: into the self, into a shared past with families, friends, strangers.

My apartment door I entered with no back door to escape, when I entered my Hell

She cries, "there's Monsters under my bed"
I'm sorry darling but that's just your imagination

Your shame has brought despair
Your hate has given me dispute

When care is pressing us down a bit
Rest, if we must but don't quit

BSR Blog

My mother never threw a photograph away, so after
her death we inherited even those unintentional ones

"What WATERSHED reveals in this strange scene from an imagined future is the extent to which the American imagination of the present continues to be haunted by a spectacle that hides as much as it reveals."

"I wish to believe that by becoming more self-conscious the white gaze may be made more questioning, more reciprocal, more a basis for dialogue."

"Rain for the last week and a half though the sun threatened to burst through the thick blanket of clouds draped over the city this morning."

"No text is more than a page; many are a pair of lines. Any longer and something resembling meaning might’ve coalesced."