Painting The Bedroom To Keep Yourself Original
Ostdick, Sept 9, 2006
You have to
understand one thing about Grace Donnellson: she’s a modern girl.
She gets up at seven every morning and puts on her two piece suit, the
pinstripes on the pants and jacket perfectly aligned with each other,
running down to her black bargain bin pumps. She grabs her brown leather
brief case, the one all her colleagues have, that she bought because it
made her look professional but deep down it was because she loved the way
it smelled, picking up a protein drink on her way out the door, really
wishing she called in sick to go to the beach... (more)
From the Editor
Nov 3, 2006
fans. Before you dig into your Thanksgiving feast, gather around your
computer screens and check out this month's offering. We bring you
new fiction by Chicago's own Mr. Nick Ostdick (see left), of
RAGAD fame. We bring you a
new review by Jason Jordan (see right), of
Powering the Devil's
Circus fame. This month, he's doing Crane's When the
Messenger is Hot. The poetry section (below) is pleased to
welcome all new poets to our family, including San Francisco's Christa
Picciuto, England's Christopher Major, and Michele McDannold, out of rural
Illinois. You'll also notice that we've thrown in an "image poem"
from returning decomP contributor Jeff Crouch to spice things up a bit.
Hell, this is the holidays. Announcements: If you are
interested in being in the best of decomP book, submit to the site.
If you're already "one of us," show some support and donate some funds via
the PayPal button at the bottom of this page on the right. Also help
promote our little enterprise through our fairly new
MySpace page or by
going door-to-door in your neighborhood. Enjoy, and
e-mail us with your thoughts,
comments, and submissions.
A Review of Crane's When the Messenger is Hot
Jason Jordan, Oct 30, 2006
It’s heartening to see a large, mainstream
press – in this case, Little, Brown and Company – take a chance with not
only an experimental author, but a collection, which, typically, is a
tougher sell than a full-length novel. Crane’s When the Messenger is
Hot is, as said, a collection of experimental short stories that touch
on a variety of topics. All in all, it’s a pretty good read, though not
quite as fulfilling as I originally hoped it would be. From dating
to drinking to death, the Chicago-based writer continually blurs the lines
between fiction and nonfiction... (more)
Picciuto, Oct 4, 2006
hand snapped -
pressure built under a magnifying glass
like no one could predict
a near-by collapse [at epileptic speed].
I watched her step over the cracks
She didn't often stray behind
But superstition allowed the lag.
Ticket stubs scarred by
the promises of thumbtacks;
Hanged on the walls
to consume any willing spectator's time.
Numbers and Letters
Remind me in which seat I sat
On every train wreck.
Point A interrupted by Point B.
I always knew I was getting nowhere fast.
I counted all the children
Playing in the weeds below the tracks
But their faces were blurred
By my vessel's velocity.
Christa Picciuto lives near San Francisco, California. She has pursued
poetry with a great deal of personal interest and, of course, with
interest in the outsider's opinion.
Christopher Major, Sept 24, 2006
This climate always
ensures row after row
just bursting to be picked.
I know some use chemicals,
they bruise so easily;
look, another bunch,
go on ,
If it makes
you feel better-
bloody spoil her
if you want......................
Christopher Major lives in Staffordshire, England, where he is training to
be a psychiatric nurse. His poems have appeared in many UK print
magazines, including Pennine Platform, Outposts, Poetry Monthly,
and Poetry Nottingham. His poetry chapbook can be accessed at
Jeff Crouch, Aug 23, 2006
All we know about Jeff is that he
lives in Grand Prairie, TX.
You Laugh At Rumble Bees
Michele McDannold, Oct 7, 2006
It’s not hard to skip the
shuttle around with caffeine,
but today there’s a window shop
of sweet rolls and honey buns
scrooge counts the saccharin drops.
Throwing a rock in the beehive,
it’s the sound I hear under this
overpass, over and over again.
You laugh at the rumble of bees
when the tables are empty,
no humans chewing foods,
no one to bring you the smell,
or remind you of the texture.
You can almost forget the way
your lips have become chapped,
The impression is worn away,
a sensation ground out to grit,
such flippant thoughts as yourself.
These abstentions make you impotent.
You can’t taste the snot that rolls down
into your mouth at instant intervals
from that head cold you developed.
The tears, though . . .
. . . you can almost feel
the salt on your tongue.
I mean, feel it.
You want to wrap your tongue around it,
covet the thing, hide it,
and you never really knew what
bittersweet tasted like till just now,
as you remind yourself—
every experience has its
Michele McDannold lives in
rural Illinois. She believes in... The String Theory, all lights should be
blue, and chaos is the only way to get things straight. Her poetry has
been published with The Indite Circle, Lunatic Chameleon, Zygote in My
Coffee and elsewhere.