Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


The Pirate Story

Tom Macher

I learned to sleep as light as a new mother, in increments of minutes rather than hours, listening as I dreamed for a rustling of clothing, a knife unsheathed, and then I stopped sleeping altogether.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Heavy Lyfting

Ben Austin-Docampo

It's easy in the sense that all you have to do is get in the car and fire up the app. It's hard in that it requires long, monotonous hours to be fruitful, and constant vigilance to stay safe. San Francisco is a tough city to drive.

House on Toluca

Jesus De La Torre

Bars or no bars, if you did have something worth having, they’d take it, whether you were ridiculous about home security or not.

Stag, Emblem, Anthem

Joni Wallace

...someone’s / white Dodge pickup blinkering down / the mountain, on the windshield / needle-likes, double columns, pentameters, / Bentley’s iconographic crystals / playing into zero visibility.

Time When the Birds Turn Silver

time when the turning birds silver time exploding brined like sweet lemons time wolves bark skunks slip into coops fishing line knots up roads slick proud with ice the boys I fuck all eat candy

From the Archives

Lost Privilege Company

The Blunt Research Group

­­The poems of Lost Privilege Company appear under the signature of the Blunt Research Group, an anonymous, contemporary collective of poets, activists,…

Moriah

Paige Cooper

In 1828 certain men of this village climbed to the peak of Mount Isaac to eat the yolk of the great roc's egg. Yet the savage bird came upon them...

Her Young Death/Loose/In You

Eva Mary Hooker

Mutability is within the soul itself. It listens its way in / With eager mouth. God was never so economical. / Death inscribes its signature without blot...

Shoobie

Dinah Cox

Once, a long time ago, I knew a guy named Martin who did not like to be called Marty, though I'd heard another man, Charles, who himself allowed people to call him Chuck, call him Marty on several occasions.

From the Blog

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.

Experiments with White Heat

That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…