Non-fiction: S. Aurin Haber Literary Analysis: Allison Smith Fiction: Sara Keilholtz Poetry: John Hart

Poetry: "Chasin' the Trane" by John Hart Rise O high priest of a dead sax language your Afro blue notes fly through my soul like Martha Graham shooting a loaded Uzi bang your red hot fourths shoot blinding seraphic light boil my heart into a tantrum of arrhythmia i need your om-green notes to breathe they beat a path to my tympanic membrane with a be and a bop and a bebop bop your yellow birdland notes glide across my ego like a stealth bomber dropping leaflets warning of moods yet to come your booze-stained monk notes float like blossoms from a rare Harlem nighttree that gives off pheromones of whiskey and smoke in a basement room with round midnight women and wire chairs i reach out for those last five triplets soaring for the traneosphere and snap my soulbelt onto the measure i am whimsically lost in someone else's soul aboard your highball lush life express pull us all to gloryland St. John we cannot wait for Gabriel get up my brother stand on the dead man's clutch and blow the maggots off your axe you holy jesuit of jazz no time to count stitches in your coffin lining count one two one rise man rise push that stone back with the resurrection blues i will follow your ascension to the new jerusalem and watch men without souls immolate at the first note you blow man scorch the earth rapture the saints i offer this prayer from the stellar regions of my mystic self amecca amends amen