JUNE 2007


PaintWriteDeathLifeArt (Sketches from a life in art)
By Ben Tanzer, Jan 30, 2007
My father Michael Tanzer was a lot of things. Painter. Teacher. Activist. Raconteur. Filmmaker. New Yorker. High-school dropout. Tough guy
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Jacques & Pierre
By Bradley Michael Hamlin, Jan 28, 2007
The big egg yoke burning in the sky threatened his hangover. Steve chose an outdoor table with an umbrella and felt the breath come out of his body as he slumped down onto the uncomfortable hard wooden chair. He looked at his watch, almost noon, should have been here by now, he thought
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Orphan Patrol
By Andrew Davis, Nov 10, 2006

A Review of Saunders' In Persuasion Nation (2006)
By Jason Jordan, May 21, 2007
Until recently, Saundersís fiction has hit the mark every time itís attempted to do so.  The short story collections CivilWarLand in Bad Decline (Riverhead, 1996) and Pastoralia (2000) were great surrealist fiction entries, as was the novella The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil (Riverhead, 2005), but In Persuasion Nation (Riverhead, 2006) is a mixed bag.  A few stories work.  Most, however, do not.  Though the adage ďdonít judge a book by its coverĒ still applies these days, IPNís cover art is bland, despite its relevance, and itís difficult to muster anticipation about a book when the artwork is a turnoff.  Nonetheless, the covers of Saundersís books Ė sans the reprints Ė have never been much to look at anyway... (more)

Ghost Ships
By Gary Beck, Feb 6, 2007
Long departed vessels
melted down for scrap,
now razors, TVs, autos,
made from relics of the sea
to profit us once again.

Disintegrated piers
splintering to fragments,
gnawed upon by avid worms,
deserted by travelers
when they found new transport,
now skating rinks and homeless havens.

Cruise ships still sail everywhere
for recreational pursuits,
assaulting unspoiled coasts,
but seldom are in conflict
with the perils of the deep,
lest the crew, like rats,
abandon ship.

Gary Beck's poetry and fiction has appeared in numerous literary magazines. His plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off-Broadway.

5 A.M.
By Pete Lee, Feb 8, 2007
the bulb in my downcast
reading lamp (just switched
on), reflected in the first cup
of morning coffee, indicates
that the wattage is 09

I sip at it, and it is as if I am
being electrocuted: but very slowly

Pete Lee lives with his wife and two small furry things in Ridgecrest, California, where he works as an independent bookseller. His poetry has most recently appeared in the online journals Antithesis Common, The 13th Warrior Review, Alba, The Country Mouse, Shampoo, and The Rose & Thorn.

Duotrope's Digest reports that decomP is #4 in the Top 25 Swiftest Poetry markets and #13 in the Top 25 Most Approachable Poetry Markets!

A Visit from Creditors
By Paul Stotts, Feb 14, 2007
A car, the color of a fresh scab,
headlights like opaque bubbles,
rounded side panels, turns into
our driveway. Stopping, it rests,
shrinks slightly back into itself
as though sighing after a
long day at work

Two men, crumpled suits the color
of an angry ocean, unfold out of
the car like clothes falling from a dryer.
Ridged hats with wide brims
obscure their faces, shadows veiling
their eyes. The driver glances at
numbers on a clipboard, rubs his nose,
then checks the number on the house.
The numbers define us. As if tasting the air,
his mouth contorts; his passenger nods.

Mother herds my sister and I away from
the front window. Out of the living room.
The abandoned black and white television
left to chatter with invisible playmates.
"Let's see you hide for Mommy",
her smile thin and taut like a sparrow's crooked leg.
Running to our room like soldiers repeating
their daily routine, we snuggle
against each other under my bed.
The doorbell introduces the two men.
Only the television greets them.

Again, the men interact with the doorbell.
Minutes pass; their conversation continues.
The door rudely introduces itself; hollow,
rumbling voice booming. Bang, bang, bang.
Magnified faces peer through the glass as
though looking through a microscope. I squirm.
"We know you're home," a voice says.
This doesn't feel like home.

The afternoon wanes. The men disappear with
the sun. Father comes back; Mother screams.
We snuggle closer to each other under my bed.
All evening, the television responds to the yelling
echoing from behind the closed bedroom door.
Screams diminish as the television starts snowing.
Father will soon move us to a new place.
My sister sleeps in my arms, her chin tucked into
my shoulder. Not dreaming of tomorrow.
She only knows today.

Paul Stotts spends his days in deep contemplation, putting his philosophy degree to good use. A graduate of Loyola College in Maryland, he currently lives in California.

By Nathan Tyree, Apr 27, 2007
Some dark thing awoke
And struck out with an
Unforeseen brutality when
I noticed that you had eaten
The cold, sweet plums
I had been saving for breakfast.

Nathan Tyree's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Edifice Wrecked, 3 AM, The Beat, Star Crossed and many other literary journals. He has also been anthologized many times, most recently in The Flash from Social Disease Press.


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