|
NOVEMBER 2008 | |
Rusty Barnes Murray Brozinsky Sean Ruane Carly Swanberg |
By Randy Thurman, Oct 18, 2008 ![]() |
Tom Fillion Tai Dong Huai Nathan Leslie Robert Swartwood |
LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO HIDE WHEN THE WORLD GOES OUT
By Lester Allen, Sep 25, 2008 the threat of fire or flood means very little to one resting soundly in a Manhattan hotel room with clean drapes and saucer of mints on the dresser by the door a room that for one night might be feasible but a week it could never last so you stretch each second as long as it will go like child’s eyes on a movie after bedtime or the “truths” of the many politicians driving this country drunk the lizards slither from the swamps only to return as men mean & ugly and so disillusioned with life that it isn’t even life but a side-show act at a carnival now packed in upon a train and riding the tracks to nowhere fast I become curious about the inner workings of the tv even when it is working it is perfectly broken and filled with people who know everything and therefore ask no questions I do not wish to meet these people but I have as of yet found no way to completely avoid them in restaurants they will be there on the street in the museums they will be there the art galleries the parks especially in the municipal buildings the squad cars & country clubs they will be there thicker than all the other places like tree sap between fingers trying to make peace with the whole but there is never any lasting peace only the occasional tolerances of lesser men striving to be somebody anybody and usually failing money cannot make them nor women or golf strokes or lack of humanity heads become lodged is assholes every day and yet the broken tv mentions nothing of it the conditioned air of this room is too much so the sheets upon my skin feel like I imagine a good massage might feel or perhaps my satisfaction lies in the knowing that when the waters do rise or flames fix to blaze they will be taking nothing away from me Postal dude by day, beer-drunk, pen-wielding madman by night. Lester has scattered his poems across the small presses with poems recently appearing in Up the Staircase, Debris Magazine, and Poetry Warrior. He has two books forthcoming from d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press of California. Visit him at his MySpace. THE IDIOT IN CHARGEBy Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Jul 06, 2008 The idiot comes to my desk, calls me a genius, trying to be a funny guy. I would respond, hey idiot if I wanted to, but why state such an obvious thing? I listen to the idiot and pretend he knows what he is talking about. He’s a made guy around these parts. This is not the mafia. But it seems like it sometimes with all these cronies and wise guys who defend each other’s poor excuse for management. In his office he snores sitting down on his chair during work hours. He comes in an hour late and leaves one hour early. Collects his check while others work themselves to death and near madness. Perhaps the idiot is really a genius slacking off. But he still remains an asshole. Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal has a new chapbook out called Garden of Rocks from Kendra Steiner Editions. House SittingBy Renee Emerson, Aug 26, 2008 Five days in the luxury of a borrowed home, using a place that does not belong to us: the pine-paneled floors and leather sofas, the empty bedrooms, guestrooms, office with paperwork they have not yet finished, pantries with foods we would never eat— the cans of cerignola olives, pickled tomatoes, organic strawberries, jars of peach preserves, from unlabeled summers past summers where you and I lived states away in homes we paid for by the month. When we leave, the house fills with its familiars, and we move again, the transient residents of every place we’ve ever been. Renee Emerson is an MFA student at Boston University. She was born and raised in Eads, TN, and currently resides with her husband and two cats in Malden, MA. NubianBy Antony Hitchin, Sep 10, 2008 Mottled cream thighs twisting in lights obscene her index finger curled always there waiting to serve smelling of Columbian and sweet femininity like a child skipping new feet her light seas black like death cries, black as Nubian coffee’s black, black night her aroma smothers flashing neon leather curves sticky with Vaseline bare light bulb blurs a halo white like mortuary. Antony Hitchin is a thirty-one-year-old prose and poetry writer, and co-editor of Eviscerator Heaven. He has recently been a Guild of Outsider Writers Feature Poet and has been published or is forthcoming in Underground Voices, Serious Ink Press (web & spoken-word CD), Fissure, Geeek, The Gut, Origami Condom, Gloom Cupboard, Instant Pussy, a UK Anthology by Forward and many others. Visit Antony at his MySpace. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
Borrowing Night From Day
By William Lusk Coppage, Aug 09, 2008 At seventeen, we dropped acid like the changing leaves in autumn. Brightly colored bits of paper floating down to the ground, our tongues. We drove the levees— long serpents of dirt, twisting our underage breaths with Red Stripe, while our lungs screamed to Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails, and against our city— the low lying lands of farms and forest, faults deeper than our silt rich soil. We took shots of whiskey from the bottle of a black man outside a country corner juke. He laughed as I puked and drove away. We leapt over railroad crossings— four tires flew through the night, flew through untilled fields, mud and clay, caking wheel-wells and boot heels. We climbed water towers but never spray-painted our names. We kept guns next to our heads, paraded on racks for display, but never thought to use them on each other. One night, Thomas had a knife. He was sick of the constant torment of varsity blues, the blue blood’s attitudes. You hate me? You hate me? Then here, use this, kill me now motherfucker! He didn’t die that night, but was reborn. No one fucked with him anymore. Calling their bluff, he walked back to our car slow and confident. And as we drove through the night, our electric veins, a pulse only heard by us, thumped and thumped as city lights became stars and flickered out of existence. Drawing on personal experiences of growing up in the Mississippi Delta, William Lusk Coppage takes his readers on a journey through lush landscapes, high school anxieties, and adolescent hell-raising, all the while tackling the internal conflict of identity and responsibility to family. He received his BFA in poetry at the University of North Carolina - Wilmington and is currently enrolled in the MFA program at McNeese State University. Visit him at his MySpace. They always get what they wantBy Aleathia Drehmer, Aug 10, 2008 The thought of mating rituals has not been entertained in years and she fails to notice the dances going on around her, already captured and caged forgetting the thrill of a man’s advances; The smell of cologne, hands at the small of her back or a gentle cupping of the elbow. She has forgotten how close He’ll lean in to whisper nothings in her ear about dinner or music or even the weather, and she won’t hear words, only the treble in his voice as it vibrates across her skin. She remembers now about the loud music and its excuse for him to angle into her to smell the sweetness of her shampoo mixed with the excited musk of her flesh. In turn he knows his breath, warm and fast, will melt her in all the right places regardless of what he says. And he plays cat and mouse, easing back, out and away from her, knowing she is hungry enough to chase. Aleathia Drehmer is a writer who has spent the first two and a half decades of her life moving around America with her family like a band of gypsies. She now finds herself settled in the village of Painted Post, NY, with her darling daughter and their crazy cat Carrot. She is a co-editor of Zygote in My Coffee. Her work can be found in print and online in some of these fine journals: Silenced Press, Ottawa Arts Review, Laura Hird Showcase, Cause & Effect, The Cerebral Catalyst, Word Riot, Gloom Cupboard, Cherry Bleeds, Kill Poet, and Lit Up Magazine. Driving with the Top DownBy Christine Hamm, Aug 15, 2008 You’re touching my waist, my hips, but it’s not you, it’s the guy who looks like you and we’re climbing the stairs between rooms of warm pink light, complicated wallpaper and soft, soft gray couches. One of my friends—the long-haired one with hand tattoos— is trying to teach us guitar, but we can only watch each other’s lips and tongues. Your words have a feel, they feel like felt or a wool skirt and everything is just a little too hot so I take off my skirt and I’m wearing my knee socks pulled all the way up and some high-heeled boots which catch on the rug while we leave the noisy warm room with its guitar music and lacy pink drapes, but you catch my hand, you grab me by the elbow and haul me up and you say, next time, I’m driving. Christine Hamm is a PhD candidate in English Literature at Drew University. She won the MiPoesias First Annual Chapbook Competition with her manuscript, Children Having Trouble with Meat. Her poetry has been published in The Adirondack Review, Pebble Lake Review, Lodestar Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Rattle, and over ninety others. She has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and she teaches English and poetry writing at Rutgers University. The Transparent Dinner, her book of poems, was published by Mayapple Press in 2006. Christine was recently named a runner-up to the Poet Laureate of Queens. Visit her at her blog. A Common PlaceBy Mitch James, Sep 04, 2008 There’s a coffee gospel screaming from the grinder, Crossing a matrix of chatter on politics, God, Love— Life. There’s a cute blonde who always talks to me, Wanting to know what I’m working on from day to day, And I want to invite her to sit, But she brandishes her bible In appearance Speech— In thought. I can’t tell her I kill children, mothers, Whole families in my mind, That I want to make a living doing it, Feed her future children with it... Homework, I reply. Always reply. She smiles in that Christian way; It says marry me so I can fuck, Love, have children Cum— Get into heaven. I smile back with that smile that says Darling, we’re there, Buffets, the starving, Free to fuck Abortion clinics— Morning after pills. Please wake up, stupid bitch. You didn’t invent it all. I want to tell her I believe in God, too, But I don’t understand it. She’ll never understand that sort of thing. Peter and Paul sit on the couch, Preaching back and forth. They’re kids. They’ve never gone to war, Had a broken heart— Cum inside a woman. Unfaltering faith, one of them utters. Unfaltering faith? It’s easy, here, to be unfaltering How would they respond to Kevin Carter— To their God in Sudan? Mitch James was born and raised in Central Illinois, where he received a BA in English with a minor in creative writing from Eastern Illinois University. He currently lives in Pennsylvania, where he just completed his Masters degree in Literature. He has had fiction and poetry published in such journals as Westward Quarterly and The Vehicle, and hopes to be getting his feet wet in a PhD or MFA program in creative writing this time next year. ELEGANT RAINCOATS, NEGLECTED GARDENSBy Oliver Rice, Sep 08, 2008 We are here, he says, between thesis and antithesis, are here, they say, with horoscopes, gondolas, kebabs cooking in dingy shops, here, he says, between mysticism and rationalism, here, they say, with casinos, fish tanks, resthouses in the African bush, flea markets, neglected gardens, rules of the tea ceremony, between Dionysus and Apollo, Eros and Thanitos, with elegant raincoats, dancing horses, saxophones seizing the night, dog races, button boxes, poppies on the rolling hills, dream houses, karate lessons, gulls at low tide on the flats. Oliver Rice has received the Theodore Roethke Prize and twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poems have appeared widely in journals and anthologies in the United States, as well as in Canada, England, Austria, Turkey, and India. His book of poems, On Consenting to Be a Man, has been introduced by Cyberwit, a diversified publishing house in the cultural capital Allahabad, India, and is available on Amazon.com. |
Knowing You Possess Nothing
By Matthew D’Abate, Aug 08, 2008 Hell of a thing just takes a couple of moments to really ingest a couple breaths swimming in quicksand when one person becomes memory you start to believe that there has never been a time that they had existed that they had touched you that they have never told you they loved you you think that all the smiles accumulated in all those moments have never amounted to anything but the problem really is is that each human being has numerous special moments within them the heart being a most forgetful muscle it says one thing one year and does the opposite the next the potential for love is the same as the flower stem reaching towards the sun it just keeps pointing to the light the thing is that no one owns the light or the direction of it but grows towards it despite the silence and the gravity below. Matthew D’Abate splits his time between his writing desk and the bar he is gainfully employed at. Drinking helps. Art is better. Dating is silly. He has completely accepted his cliché of bartender/writer. Luckily, alcohol makes it all go away. His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in Thieves Jargon, Dogmatika, Word-Myth, The Pedestal Magazine, Cherry Bleeds, and Zygote in My Coffee. He lives in Brooklyn, NYC. The Game Show HourBy Theresa Edwards, Aug 26, 2008 At home, in the quick intervals of my husband’s channel changing, the consonants and vowels toggle on a flashing billboard like Scrabble pieces in air. Wheel flaps sound like those old playing cards in the spokes of that two-wheeler I rode when I was eleven. The Wheel of Fortune makes me think of all the nights my parents dozed on and off, tired bodies plopped on each other or at opposite sides of an orange couch. Jeopardy’s final-round theme song reminds me of the 7-8 p.m. ritual: my father stating the questions, me wanting to change the channel, my mother, eyes closed, mumbling throughout the game-show hour under her breath. I watch my husband offer the right guess to the distinguished host who, no matter who he is, never seems to age in the façade of plasma skewing. Even tired Vanna stays the course: teeth whiter than any of ours who whiten every couple of months, blue liners hollowing out half-an-hour smiles. And I’m aware of truths: my parents, dead more than ten years each, resonate in a glow of TV game shows. In those interludes of Jeopardy, I lounge, eyes closed, head tucked perfectly in between my husband’s armpit and shoulder. He helps to ease the ache: press of knuckles against my left breast bone— my parents’ absence. Theresa Edwards’s poetry has appeared in Triplopia, AdmitTwo, Boxcar Poetry Review, Clean Sheets Magazine, Softblow, Chronogram, and elsewhere. She has an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing (poetry). She tutors writing at Marist College, Poughkeepsie, NY, and is founder and editor of Holly Rose Review, a new online poetry and tattoo literary journal. THE MADNESS OF ACTION FIGURESBy Jason Hardung, Sep 02, 2008 When I lay down to sleep war is declared between my ears two ideals one on the verge of change and the other a nation of small plastic soldiers with no home and angry that they can’t walk because their legs don’t bend like normal action figures. When I had baby teeth and believed life was unbreakable my mom warned me not to take C-3PO and Luke Skywalker in the bath tub with me. Their limbs will lose elasticity she would say and plus light sabers don’t work underwater you idiot. I didn’t listen. And the British robot’s electrical system went haywire while a ring of dirt stuck to the edge of the tub. I stuck him in a shoebox and never defended the fate of the universe with him again. I think of people in my life like my friend Paul that was always an asshole but one night in the snowy mountains he almost died in a highway car crash heading west to Laramie to see some girl he just met. He ended up in a coma for a couple months with a head injury and when he came to he would play with himself so the nurses could see and bit doctors with his dirty mouth. He was a bigger asshole than before. All it took was a cracked white skull on black ice to make him a monster. I have a shoebox full of friends buried in my closet. Sometimes it’s water a brutal crash a bullet a needle in a vein an unsympathetic cock broken teeth on the sidewalk an angry flower peddler a divine intervention. Sometimes it’s nothing at all. Jason “Juice” Hardung is a late bloomer. After years of trying to live the junkies dream, he decided that junkies’ dreams never come true. He went to rehab and shook the insecurities out of his head and decided to pick up the pen again after a ten-year hiatus. Since then he has been published in Zygote in My Coffee, Lummox Journal, Underground Voices, Covert Poetics, Heroin Love Songs, Thrasher, Polarity, Flutter, The Socialist Women, Matter, Red Pulp Underground, Juice, Thick with Conviction, Iodine Poetry Journal, Sunken Lines, Up the Staircase, Outsider Writers, Straight from the Fridge and many more. He has two chapbooks forthcoming and readings across the country. He is an editor for Matter Journal Front Range Review and managing editor of the Great Ecstatic Reporter. He also is the Beards Minister Of Defense. He resides in Ft. Collins, Colorado, with his cat and they watch mountains out the window. the only time i remember laughing with the old manBy Justin Hyde, Oct 02, 2008 we were watching a cheech and chong movie. they were siphoning gas from a parked car with a length of hose. cheech got some in his mouth while getting it started. i was young five or six years old didn’t really understand why we were laughing. only that it felt good. His name is Justin Hyde. He lives in Iowa where he works with criminals. ![]() |