Peter Anderson

Barry Graham

Mary Hamilton

Tom Mahony

Josh Olsen

Peter Schwartz

By Charles Logan, Aug 20, 2008


Mike Faloon

Roland Goity


Jason Jordan

to the cynic
By T. M. Stringfellow, Jul 11, 2008

comfortable in
your sarcasm you
ask me why i
even try. companionship
is a plague.
love is byzantine.
sperm, at best,

your last, he cheated,
your yellow tonsils scream

to the cynic, life must
be hitlerharsh for you—
a nickelodeon of
whippings and death
with pain,
a pandemonium
migraine of only
pillars of salt.

outside my building,
brown stupidbird
has flown into
a window and now
rests at my feet.
cinnamon tuffs
of feather lie in an
ignorant mass. the one
wing left stretched
outward, upward,
something like a
fist, resembling
something like triumph.

T. M.Stringfellow lives in Chicago and is a recent Northwestern University graduate. A budding poet, her first poetry book is entitled More than Dancing and is published by Third World Press. She works as a trading assistant for a hedge fund.

By Howie Good, Jul 08, 2008

I’m going away tonight. I’m going over the valley.
I must get to the station.

Boy, fetch my fiddle. Where is my clock?
All compound things are subject to breaking up.

Only one man ever understood me.
And he didn’t really understand me.

Nothing soothes pain like human touch.

More light.
Open the second shutter so that more light may come in.

The Earth is suffocating.

(Assembled from the last words of Salvador Dalí, James Brown, Cosmo Lang, Babe Ruth, Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Siddhartha, Frederic Chopin, Bobby Fischer, Robert Roy MacGregor, Tallulah Bankhead, and Johan Wolfgang von Goethe.)

Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of five poetry chapbooks, Death of the Frog Prince (2004), Heartland (2007), and Apocalypse Mambo (2008) from FootHills Publishing, Strangers & Angels (2007) from Scintillating Publications, and the e-book, Police & Questions (2008), from Right Hand Pointing.

Listed at Duotrope's Digest

By Drew Kalbach, Jun 26, 2008

You leave love
and the love you leave is real.
It is covered in beans, soaked in soda, and baked until
the crusty midnight protrusions, the awkward

handshakes and faces solidify
into something much less human and more like a computer left on for years.
You leave the party smashed
into a very thin pancake and you taste yourself and you wonder
how it is you’ve made it this far.

We claim
that there are other wheelbarrows to push
and thinner bushes to prune
and larger flowers that won’t grow because you planted them wrong last year.
But this isn’t a cheap board game
being played naked on a backyard porch.

There’s a pain in your chest, probably from the sobbing,
but maybe it’s all those times
you lifted yourself off the bed half-dressed to find the blinds are shut
and there is some boring music playing on the television.

You say
I never figured it out, that he was a show,
that when we danced last week on the 24/7 dock you were thinking
about the ducks we saw earlier and how
excited you had been to quack
and to chase orange-beaked ghosts across a field full

of forgotten Frisbees.
I left it cold
and there it was at four in the morning eating cheese and begging me please
just stay online, just stay online.

Drew Kalbach lives in Philadelphia. He dreams of becoming a poet that trains wild bears to hunt down murderers and maul them.

In Coyoacan
By Travis Blair, Jun 18, 2008

the cobblestones
are coated with Kahlo’s footprints.
I walk on them, feel the texture of her toes
beneath the primaveras on Londres street.
I pass among her ghosts
their spirits so near I smell their breath-
the scent of molé sauce on Diego
smoke from Trotsky’s fine cigars
Tina Modotti’s glossy lipstick
a hint of mint tequila on Paz.
From Hidalgo Plaza I stroll among them
to Frida’s enshrined House of Blue
where her persistent spirit rubs against me
so close I reach out my hand
and touch her on the hip.

In Coyoacan I wander the narrow streets
where pastel houses reek of history
and Bohemian worshippers of life
dance around the Jardin’s coyote fountain.
I try to stop time
but feel it speeding past me
escaping like helium hissing from a balloon.
I try to plug it
slow it to a stupored halt
but it runs up my arm and leaps into trees
a wild spider monkey off its leash
and Frida leans against me laughing.

Travis Blair is an old outlaw who lives a mile down the road from the University of Texas in Arlington where he graduated back in the Dark Ages. For thirty years he worked in the movie industry before taking up writing poetry. His poems have been published in Znine, Taking a Chance, South Africa’s Kreativ, Plain Spoke, and July’s Instant Pussy. His collection of poems written in and about Mexico is being prepared for publication this fall as his first book.

Buried in Vienna
By Ananda Selah Osel, Jun 28, 2008

sitting here listening to
King FM: “Seattle’s #1 (only) classical choice,”
Schubert pouring through the speakers,
i have settled on writing a poem

Schubert asked to be buried next to
Ludwig because he admired him so much
it seems strange to care where you’re laid
to rest but everyone seems to care

he died of syphilis at three in the afternoon
and soon received his wish as he was placed
beside his hero in Vienna

maybe he thought he’d live forever
if near Ludwig, it would be nice
to know

if i have to be buried
i’d like it to be next to either
Jimi Hendrix or Bruce Lee
but both those spots
are, of course,
already filled

ideally though, i’d like to be eaten
by my offspring, or past loves
or perhaps by a group of
school children

and i’d like my eulogy to
be extremely esoteric
and read by a strange
yet brilliant

then someone could read this poem
this poem about Schubert
this poem about syphilis
this poem about death
this poem about me
this poem about

that would be funny
would it not?

Ananda Selah Osel writes autobiographical poems from his home in Seattle, Washington. His work has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. New work is forthcoming in Word Riot, The African American Review, and The League of Laboring Poets. You can visit him at his website.

Grandma’s Distraction
By Emily Hane, Jul 16, 2008

The single strand

of black chin hair

distracted my


from my grandmother’s


Emily Hane is an undergraduate at the University of Kansas where she studies Political Science and English Literature. She is a member of the University Honors Program and was recently selected as a University Scholar. She works on the campus where they pay her too much to do too little. In her spare time, Emily enjoys volunteering and gardening.

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