Tremendous Power of Concentration
Part Three of Four
By Mike Smith, Sept 4, 2007
I realized later that Elizabeth and I hadn’t been there for each other for some time, but that was hidden by writing and working and shopping and cleaning and cats. I didn’t know what kind of romance and love I had been missing until I shared it with Michelle. I was putting all of my writing aside now to concentrate on figuring things out. Did I want to stay with Elizabeth or move forward with Michelle or were those options even available to me? As we were walking to the restaurant, I looked over at Michelle. Huge snowflakes were falling all around us. They were in our hair, getting in our mouths, all over my black coat, all over her brown coat. For a brief second, even though the world around us was really falling apart, everything was perfect
... (more)

gallery of work
By Ira Joel Haber, Mar 31, 2007

A Review of Boyle's Dollhouse (2007)
By Jason Jordan, Oct 26, 2007
For those acquainted with the online/print zine known as Thieves Jargon, the name Mike Boyle should ring that proverbial bell. Published numerous times in TJ since 2005, Dollhouse (Thieves Jargon Press, 2007) is Boyle’s debut novel, and a good one at that. The book follows protagonist Tony Diggs during a tumultuous ménage à trois with a drug-addicted girl named Cindy and her alcoholic mother Lois, who also finds himself amidst crises of his own such as the impending death of his father, increasing distance between him and his friends, and a pressing situation which involves either taking his band to the next level or remaining at his shitty, blue-collar job doing the same thing day in and day out. Though a mere 171 pages, Dollhouse is certainly denser than it first appears... (more)

Penelope's Fluttering Heart
By Alison Eastley, Apr 30, 2007
They drank wine with the stereo
blasting Like A Virgin
from Madonna's favourite hits

and winked
at each other when Penelope
flashed her ankles,

the shape of her knees,
those brilliant teeth, that dazzling
smile even though gossip

columns insinuated
on page three her husband
was busy enjoying multiple affairs

on exotic islands
known for drug trafficking
and better cosmetic surgery

than exclusive clinics.
Penelope heard so many things
her head spun in the star

lit room of daring suitors.
Do you think she didn't sleep
with at least one after years

hidden in the silence
of her room where her heart
fluttered and sweat dripped

between her breasts,
when there is only one chance
to throw caution to the wind?

Alison lives in Tasmania, Australia with her two teenage sons and on a good weekend, her lover Larry. Previous work has been published in
Mannequin Envy, Double Dare Press, Words On Walls, Mastodon Dentist, LilyLit, and Tryst.

Blowing Tiny Bubbles In The American Dream
By Doug Draime, Apr 30, 2007
Mummies are speaking through
cat scans and x-rays, blowing
rivers of ether. The ozone
layer blows holes of
poisonous gas thru you and
me. The government blows up men and women
and their children, because the feds
don’t like the way they think. Tonight,
a 15 year old starving
runaway blows
her first trick,
for a hamburger and milk shake
in the parking lot
at McDonalds.

Trying To Read Poetry At A Redneck Bar
By Doug Draime, Jun 1, 2007
when the fight started, a woman
screamed, read 'em a poem!
but i was the only
“poet“ there & i was getting kicked
in the face & was trying to
get up to fight ... not read poems,
but some drunk & ignorant soul
got brave &
started to read some Dylan Thomas, but was
cut across the ball sack by
the same woman,
before he got to, do not go gentle into
the good night

My friends in this Town
By F.D. Marcél, May 2, 2007
I worry for them
for their sanity and their lives,
they won't have me anymore
when I leave town.

Like when what's-his-name loses his job again
and moves back with his father
and I take him out for steak
with my I-didn't-buy-liquor-this-week money.
Like when what's-his-face can't stand his wife
or his crying babies and calls
screaming "This is it!"
and I come by with cheap beer and a good movie.
Like when whoever-he-is can't stomach the world
and walks the streets with a knife in hand
and he and I drive around,
smoking weed until he puts the knife away.

But the farewell party never happens
even though they know I'd never want one
and they're busy with careers
with families, with lives while I
stand in front of the labor office,
sit inside the plasma center,
walk out of the pawn shop
to fund vagrancy, alone,
I realize they realize they may never see me again,
my friends in this town,
and goodbyes don't last like how we used to shake hands,
so who gives a shit.

F.D. Marcél began his career as a staff correspondent for the Reading Eagle newspaper. His work has been in various publications both online and in print, including The Centrifugal Eye, Getgo Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Alighted E-Zine and Juked. When not wandering aimlessly, he can be found sleeping comfortably somewhere in or around Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Comes a Push-Cart Down a Long-Ass Ghazal
By Bob Boston, Aug 5, 2007
There are way too many people writing poetry,
and not nearly enough people reading it.

Poets write for the publication credits,
collect them like rare stamps. Each of them,

Aims to be the next Charles Bukowski,
or the next Langston Hughes, or the next Mary Jo

Bang ... or, the next - Lynn Lyfshin. They all want
to be nominated for that damn Push-Cart.

I already have one of those. It's the metal basket
I wheel down the avenue with my bottles in. I write

my poems on discarded newspapers. On yesterday's
papers, I write my own news. I steal pens from the staff

at the shelter I live in when they're not
looking. When I'm not at the shelter,

or meeting with the doctor, I'm at the library;
the nice woman who works there in her spare time

sends poems of mine out to people who publish poetry
on the library computer. I've never used ... one of those

either. I drop by the library once a day to see what's
doing. Me and my cart sometimes

make our way to the city green where I sit on a park
bench - befriending the pigeons and squirrels. I've had a

lot of poems published here and there, but I have never
won a Push-Cart. I'm not even sure what a Push-Cart for

poems is. Is it anything like mine? Why wouldn't they just give
us poets what we need more of? Some paper? A few pens?

Envelopes? Stamps?! Instead, they aim to give us ... cart?
I have to remind myself for the blessings I have. I have the

nice lady in the library who believes in my odes, I get all
the entertainment and friendship I need from the pigeons

and squirrels. Believe it or not, the number of people
who bring their bottles back to the grocery store, is just

about the same as the amount of people in the world
who read poetry. A Push-Cart. The wheels on mine work

just fine. However, If the Push-Cart
is indeed, an actual cart ... depending on what it's made of -

it might make ... a nice box.


Duotrope's Digest reported that decomP was #4 in the Top 25 Swiftest Poetry markets and #13 in the Top 25 Most Approachable Poetry Markets before submissions closed.

E-mail to Damniso Lopez (Road Sign)
By Duane Locke, Jun 5, 2007
The road sign, its lower right edge bent
Upward by a pair of piles,
             A bullet hole
Inside the triangle of each of its a’s
That join
With other members of the alphabet
To spell out the name given to this place
In space.

I looked at the verbal designation given to this
Spatial location,

Wondered where I am. There is gravel, blued,
Some light brown streaks through the bodies,
Occasionally, a sharpness that can be felt
Through the sole of the shoe.

Am inside my interior perceptions. Do
My interior perceptions create where I am.
Do my desires, dreams,
Fantasies, my personal constructions
Of the given constructed language, how
I have transformed, transfigured the language
Spoken into me by others, establish
Beyond any map where I am.

If my interior perception establishes where I am,
I am in a location where no one else,
Not even myself,
Has even been before--it is impossible to be
Two times in the same space, for
             There is
             No space.

Sameness is the opium of everyman.

The air has an osprey. My gaze sees
A blue background, and then a background
Of clouds, and then a background of clouds
And small space of blue in shape
Of a hand grenade, uncapped. But
No expolision, for what I see is a figuration,
Not an actuality, a figuration more emotively
Real than an actuality and not destructive.
An upward look
Creates the mentality
That creates wars.

No things but in ideas.

But ideas can be divorced from things
To become fantasies.

So where am I.

No where. No where. Everywhere.

Locke, Ph.D. in Metaphysical Poetry, lives in rural Lakeland, Florida. He has had 5,877 poems published in print and e-zines. He has had 17 print and e books published.


Submissions are closed until January 2008. We will continue to update each month as always and we look forward to receiving all new submissions again when the New Year arrives!