JULY 2008


Star-Spangled Enterprise
By Adam Moorad, Apr 16, 2008

Some want to pose with me. Others will just sneak a snapshot with a zoom lens from a distance without paying. There are always a few cheapskates. Some people don’t have any small bills so they let Garcia and I keep the difference. “Perdón, sir. No change,” Garcia says, his native and foreign tongues unconsciously meshed. Three
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Ira Glass Wants to Hit Me
By Ben Tanzer, May 04, 2008

Is this frustrating? Sure it is, to be so close to your dream and see it slowly slipping between your fingers. It’s crushing really. But then we are invited to join the staff for drinks and are told that Ira may come by. My plan at this point is simple—when Ira arrives, I will ply him with drinks and so charm him with my witty banter
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By Rebecca Jacoby, Jun 30, 2008

The Tiny Doll Wife
By Kelly Hodge, May 20, 2008

Joe smiled at his red-headed strategist. The town needed a church, a shop, a public house with a swinging sign. It appeared too much like the site of some six-fingered cult finally chased off by God Himself for their depraved ways. Olivia was bending down and squinting through the windows at clusters of tiny furniture, uneaten meals at the tables
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Propping Frisco
By Patrick Kelling, May 20, 2008

From under the table I pulled a jug of apple juice. I shook it to stir up the dye I’d poured in to give it a dark, moonshine coloring. It was supposed to be whisky for God’s sake. Using a funnel I filled the bottle to just over two thirds of the way up. It couldn’t be completely full; someone would have already drank
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fragments whispered to a pretty girl in spring
By John Dorsey, Apr 06, 2008


yesterday i told a
girl that what i
hate most about april
is having to pray
to t.s. eliot


i said my stomach speaks 16 different languages
then i told her
politely that love is
the language of blood


as we made love
i rubbed her wisdom
teeth together for luck
like a pair of
fuzzy dice after all
these yrs of waiting
around for angels i’ve
learned nothing


once again it is
april and death is
my snuggle bunny in
the melting snow


i pray that in
time she will become
a beautiful woman

a flower that will
bloom in any season

the poem
By John Dorsey, Apr 06, 2008

stares out at desire
a washed out sunset
built upon the lost
temples of the pilgrim’s
last known stanza a
love poem to the
new     world

oh history the child
i prayed i’d never     have

the ghosts tell me
that i am a
lot less likely to fuck
it up     than you

you’re good with words
they whisper my grandfather
always used to remind
me to treat sonnets
like a     lady

even though they are
my dead selves peering
out at my words
with the grace of
hamlet’s deaf     tongue

they obviously don’t know
me very     well

everything gets fucked up
in time even time     itself

sometimes i feel like
the grandfather clock
of     death

and the coffin song
of secondhand gods
who put words in
my     mouth

John Dorsey currently resides in Toledo, OH. He is the author of several collections including harvey keitel, harvey keitel, harvey keitel with S.A. Griffin and Scott Wannberg (Butcher Shop Press/Rose of Sharon Press/Temple of Man, 2005) and The Ghost of Helen Keller (Covert Press, 2008). He may be reached via email.

By Duane Locke, Mar 30, 2008

Grapefruit, a few, a few grapefruit
Like Christmas ornaments on a spreading backyard
                                             Aesthetically, dark golden specks
And smears
                                                    The yellow globular shape that changes
                     As an appearance in perspective as one moves from
A pepper bush with red pods toward a rust and pine-needle
Covered tin roof of a small garage.

I as a child am hungry. No food in house. The situation
Is designated with a strange word, “Depression.”

I did not dress. Still wearing my department store cheap
                      That from much washing are losing the boldness
Of their assertive blue strips.

No food. No fat-back bacon. No biscuits with harlequin hairdos.
No. My father. The failure, hid to sleep in a neighbors’ kicked-out-the Door,
Tropical island wicker chair in the back room where bed springs Leaned
Over the picture of General Lee on the wall.

Shall I pull a grapefruit, bite through the thick skin to taste the juice.

(In our postmodern world is this glimpse of a narrative a trap door.)

Should I depart from memory, call it an unsuccessful attempt, or was It
A successful attempt. But I am blind and deaf to critics. But there is a
Subversion of the sanctioned social order and late capitalism in a
Closed couplet of Shakespeare.

My mother brings a piece of bread torn in half by a hand. A spoonful Of
Peanut spread over the surface.

Is this “I am” poem in which the “I” refuses to disappear. Who was I. Where
Was I.

Make it new. Make it a gap-toothed smile. Make it a roll
In the aisle. Making it Hadrain’s beautiful boy lover drowning
In the Nile. “Make it New,” Pound’s foolish words.

Listen to what is being said about the goat through the tire
Of Robert Rauschenberg, or Keats’ Chapman Homer, or
The pets of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, or the Diaspora, or
The sound poems of the Four Horsemen, or the priest’s
Sexual abuse of choir boys who carry candles, or a Nuyorican
Grand Slam Chapionship.

In the schoolroom, one of the elite, he bought rather than bringing
His lunch, had candies to pass around as payment for someone who
Did his mathematics assignment, sits as a dark-haired Irishman
With pale blue eyes as an Iroquois in a Southern gentlemen frock Coat,

Whispers to himself:
                                      “Mon cher Belzébuth je t’adore.”           Je t’aime
The Devil, the
Satan of Job before the interpolations and change from the truth to
The falsity of the happy ending. He sung: “I’m in Hell, and my heart
Beats so that I can hardly speak.” He tells the beauty queen that sits
To him and rubs her leg against him, “A shipment came in, and crack
Is selling a discount on the streets.”

Ain’t this a display of the procedural nature of language. A real risk.

There are a lot of mobile meanings inhabiting these cheek to cheek Associations.

If the ethical life of Kierkegaard is implemented is there an Estrangement
In the visceral.

It is Glossolalia that prevent domestic violence.

Horace says all poetry should be sweet and useful.

Duane Locke lives in rural Lakeland, Florida, a few feet from an osprey nest, and has a Ph.D. in Metaphysical Poetry. As of January 2008, he has had 5,935 poems published in print magazines and e-zines, 17 print and e-books published, and 209 photos published in magazines and e-zines. For more information, Google him.

Listed at Duotrope's Digest

the early mangoes
By Iftekhar Sayeed, Apr 10, 2008

young, unripe mangoes
have been dropping
on a nearby tin
the last couple of

like thoughts
yet sweet
the focus of my mind

projecting images
of summer
of mango-heavy

flies browsing
the juiced tabletop

until then
the tin roof
will grow louder
with every mango
falling, failing
to reach summer

Iftekhar Sayeed teaches English and economics. He was born and lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh. He has contributed to The Danforth Review, Axis of Logic, Enter Text, Postcolonial Text, Southern Cross Review, Opednews.com, Left Curve, Mobius, Erbacce, The Journal and other publications. He is also a freelance journalist. He and his wife love to tour Bangladesh.

Red Light
By Zack Moll, Apr 04, 2008

I was stopped at a red light
When I looked at the car next to me;
There was a pretty young woman in a dirty white car.
Her passenger’s seat was empty
And there was a fully grown man in the back
With coke bottle glasses—
Talking endlessly.
The girl did nothing but stare straight ahead
And blink a long...
It was the sort of blink
Where you hope to be
Somewhere else when you open your eyes,
A blink I knew well.
In a moment I could tell
She was spread thin.
She wanted something unexpected,
Something that had no place on a calendar.
She wanted life—
And not the daily doldrums who claim to be such.
She needed to be rescued.
A honk came from behind us
And the woman opened her eyes
To see nothing had changed
But the light,
And drove away.
I knew her for less then thirty seconds
And never caught her name;
Yet she was the most real
And beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
My red light love.

Zack Moll has released two self-published titles at lulu.com—Deliberations and 8. His work’s been featured in Covert Poetics, and he’s currently working on a chapbook that includes both his artwork and poetry.

By John Grey, Apr 04, 2008

There goes the fire-engine.
It roars in like a drunk’s thirst
then fades away like his breath.

And another truck rumbles
down the street.
Like a drunk’s guts for a time.
Then silent as a drunk’s sleep.

Kids are playing in the yard
to the back.
Like a drunk’s memories.
Then their mother calls them in.
Even a drunk’s best times
have their bluff called.

It’s starting to rain.
Like a drunk’s dream.
And then thunder rolls,
shakes the house.
Like a drunk’s new morning.

John Grey has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal, with work upcoming in Poetry East and Cape Rock.