Here it is, out from the eternal womb, marching proud the newborn.

Sometimes I’m late — I don’t make time for poems

My ideal abstraction, my bagpipe to play symphonies, in which I invent your pleasure.

To live at your fullest you must first die at your lowest.

The secret code revealed.

Ryan fumbled in his pocket for his house keys, staring at his front door blankly.

Today, under my door: an envelope as orange as autumn moonrise

I have not conceived of you in my body but you are in the earliest stages of creation in my mind

This is where you start; where you pick up your pen

this night looms large

Last night I dreamt of a child’s heart-shaped face floating in the mirrored visor of his motorcycle helmet.

The presence that roams the common and side streets by night, treading softly

One old lady taking walks twice a day, because there was nothing to do inside except read.

A web of mist hangs a surprised bulb of sun above cliffs painted

Last night's vodka wishes sit granted at the bottom of a wastepaper basket

In the beginning, there was a lot of confusion… then at some point, it turned to life.

At long last, our inaugural volume is online for your viewing pleasure. These are our storied storytellers who made it possible.