Ann Arbor Review


Patty Dickson Pieczka
Deji Adesoye
Michelle Bailet-Jones
Steve Barfield
Gale Acuff

Elisavietta Ritchie
Solomon Haruna
Aneek Chatterjee
Karyn M. Bruce
Robert Nisbet
Laszlo Slomvits
Y. Przhebelskaya

Running Cub
Alan Britt

Alica Mathias

Michael Lee Johnson

Vyarka Kozareva

Silvia Scheibli

Richard Gartee
Fahredn Shehu
Amit Parmressar

John Grey
Shutta Crum

Jennifer Burd
Kushal Perusal

Fred Wolven

Stephen Sleboda

Denis Robillard

Alex Ferde

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2021-22 Francis Ferde All rights revert back to each poet. --editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 55 years all together....

Francis Ferde, editor
Silver Grey Fox, editing
Running Cub, reader
Fred Wolven, publisher

Submissions via e-mail:






 (She had a pretty face, drove me wild—
I even wanted her to have my child.)
              ~Robert Palmer

Get up when you’re already up?

Trampoline bouncing supermarket superstition
into the medulla I forgotta,

never seen again,
but new ones burst from superstitious
genes despite teachings
that permeate spongy imaginations fraught
with star-nosed astrophysicists
inseminating colors not approved
by the cosmic color wheel, excepting
that symbolic bluegreen pocking the lunar
surface with Triceratops horns nudging
evolution into the newest of new
world orders, order of skeletons
in lockjaw unable or unwilling
to retreat whilst others wield power
in some lightsaber universe beyond
the one we embraced the day
we were baptized by drive-thru
churches & core curriculums.



Fireflies tattoo twilight’s torso
that resembles Nijinsky’s tights.

On cable TV two dry-cleaned
bodies embrace.

One maple syrup rabbit
screeches rusty warning
to his mate in harm’s way;
I whisper that we’re here—
my Bichon & me—
before mate vaporizes
below thick forsythia.

Croakers plunder darkness.

AC fans & Yokohama tires
like maestro flicks of the wrist
lick the asphalt.

38 caliber raindrops shatter
the asbestos roof & invite
eggplant’s juvenile blossoms
with goldenrod stamens
to a romantic evening
at a candlelit hideaway.

Croakers give way to creepers,
creepers to cicadas, & like poets
not fully indoctrinated, cicadas
become cheetahs, cheetahs
exhausted by DNA yet intently
focused upon their next meal.



(La sublime mére du vínaígre . . .)
                      ~Jacques Dupin

“Was Jesus a child of God?” asked
Crabb Robinson to William Blake
during one of their zany theological

“Yes, he was. For that matter, so am I,
so are you, & Mary Magdalene as well,”
Billy advised Crabb, inserting a metaphysical
splinter into their ale-infested fantasies
leapfrogging the fiery hoops of one woman
in sequin bodysuit with hammers
in her hips smashing archaic love affairs.

Then, again, feral sax wails & crooner
croons that woman is slave to the slave
& only after a bipolar vortex curls its white
knuckles around the turquoise arteries
of hope, yikes, suffocating fate.

So, how long will it be before we assist
those who are unable to assist themselves?



Sunlight through the crack
of my brain, I said, sunlight
on the brink of insane
with a diatonic harp’s
existential squawks
inside my holy black hole.

An alarm scorpions the dawn
of my worst nightmare, like
when I loitered the streets
later that evening
with the Antarctic wind’s
walnut tail poised to sting
my beluga penumbra.

& just like that
I opened up a window.

Just like that I opened
up a window.



The incense tile is blind
as she scooches beside me
during my dream.

I don’t know whether to fall
in love or to grow scales,
seeing as how it’s all
a fairytale, anyway.

It’s 2002, the season
for religious abuse,
so, I check my illusions at the altar
and stroll
the hollowed-out paradigms 

of one thousand generations,
past lichen-covered philosophies
in search of a sober existence.

And just about then a wooden match
flickering its ladybug wings
sizzles the tip of one patchouli stick
before coughing up a lazy lotus
of blue smoke.


Alan Britt, Reistertown, Maryland 

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