Monday, November 01, 2004

Issue 15

Tim Martin

Steven Dalachinsky

Jason Heroux

Colin Van Der Woude


Tim Martin

Perhaps These Notions

the sky is falling
   well, maybe not
but everything looks
and these are my
   good shoes
i need time
   to think
the phone keeps
   ringing & i know
it's about bills
   or some big mistake
on the government forms
   how many
ways can you define
   so, i'm in the dictionary
scrawling margins with questions
   they say there
is a time
   in everyone
's life
   when the question starts
being as important
   as the answer
it seems false
   that prayer
should have gone
   this far
   i'm terrified
of predictions
   and riddles
that end
   with my
perhaps, these notions
   are unjustified
   they make the skin
   in time
with the lightening
my blood
   is full
of house sparrows
   all darting
on cue
   in the same

How Public Like A Frog

it comes down to this
i make lists to convince myself
it's time to buy land
i am not a first day fraud
i don't need a morning smoke
debt was worth it
in my renegotiated role of education
i should relocate
since saints often get cancer
and need to be fed ice chips
in this Andrew Wyeth field
i stare at silhouettes of crows
homesick with these muted colors
across acres of farmland

Candy from Strangers

too early
for murder
when the van

picks you up
the very air

morning energy
in the alarm
clock ring

free from
the moorings
the villainy

the village
the weird night
time occurrences

back to the script
with Maxwell

House stains
& breakfast meat

these things
don't sit well
with me at thirty

like tequila
and garden pizza
have ecstatic

effects i hear
as the happy
man dances

with his hammock
before the rooftops
at the party

he throws
for the voice
of the people

Tim Martin is a writer from Bryn Mawr, PA. His plays Once Upon A River, and Tales From Turtle Island have been produced by the Hedgerow Theatre and One's Self I Sing was recently given a reading. His poetry has been seen in In Words, Autumn Leaves, Orange/Blowmoney 2 and other small magazines. He is the founder of King of Mice Press and a member of the Curio Theatre Company and the Big Mind Collective.

Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders

Steven Dalachinsky

cecil taylor trio @ castle clinton - 7/29/04 ( for (e) shadow )

tell this   dy /// nam   is mos
useless blues & pinks
                in mentus
this is daylight when we most need it when
there is no day left
this is river in a shadow
shadow against an even/ing when
tree become sky

   no mental can the shadows stay this silent for so>long
   the bricks that never saw the war they fought for

                it is a yellow in the eye
                useless magenta that crosses our lives

the sun is behind me the sun
                          it heats my neck

   dy na mis mos    contrarios
                          one immigrant says to another
                     i passed thru here                           (too)

                          vialavitsef    feast    & live
                     tale tail's tale      to taste
                aventus      creatus rowldtercompat

the act of natural act of..................
                                    i've come thru here too
                                    the shadows never move
             the trees & sky are one
             glass & stone & steel a blding make
             fingers make things happen
one immigrant says to another
             glass stone & steel
             are the building blocks of this world

trader trapped inside the gullum
is a wink    the paper asleep
i crumble
                 in uniform your day begins
     like this:      shadows never move
                 sun behind your back
                 useless magenta
                 bricks that tell a tale
                 fingers make things happen

running spotlights cannot function before the nite arrives
it is really not the clock that determines transition
that crosses our lives
one immigrant says to another
                 it is when the sun crosses our backs like a river
         a festival a world -

                 sonic      tellin      panic
                 when the light that was created
             becomes the light that was invented
         a bet earned      a wise trade      a gorge traversed

2(      money      is the (M) angle
         we will not be fed by sunlight    a    loan
             even now as evening turns    snurt the concessions
         no time for this/that      it's obligat(o)ion 0bliGate
                 it's now dark it feels

             one immigrant says to another
feel my neck it passed this way
this is no joke
         privitize my sacrament it's cool now      hands on          it's cool now
             the useless magenta adds to the piano's song
                 this world was built by hands
                 tree & sky no longer touch
                 the shadows have become a river
                     that does not flow
                     brick is what i call your face
                                 i remain attached to my allegiance
                                 tea is a drink for two (3)
                                         this shifting desire is a wedge
                                                 between the clock & the hrs
clamusin          tourista          raditsula          bo          ard

         such useless appendages these hands              against the unmanacled day.


i am possessed
i definitely know now that i am possessed
by my/

we all have to pay eventually
for being on the guest-list
if i weren't here i'd have the tor-
ment of being some/where
even the dessert isn't any good
the water is about the only thing worth

i know now that i am possessed
a stones' throw away from a stone ('s)


they took it down they
blew it up they took it down they blew it

Steven Dalachinsky: my name is steven dalachinsky i am a poet among other things who has lived in ny my entire life i have been battling mental illness for lack of a better term most of my life tho most find this hard to believe. i was hospitalized when young and put thru the ringer in many ways

Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders

Jason Heroux

The Wound

I found a terrible wound in the street. It looked like a pothole, overflowing with blood. Everyone stepped carefully around it. I picked up the wound and brought it to the hospital, but there wasn't anything they could do. "It's a bad wound," the doctor said. "But it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone." I left the hospital, holding the wound, not sure what to do with it. There was blood all over my hands and clothes. The wound quivered and trembled. It squirmed like a jellyfish and was difficult to hold onto. I threw it back onto the street where it bled and ached without hurting anyone.

Jason Heroux lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. He worked in a fast food restaurant for ten years, and currently works as a civil servant. His first poetry collection "Memoirs Of An Alias" will be published by The Mansfield Press later this year.

Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders

Colin Van Der Woude


Every Sunday somebody...
or someone
sends me guiding light
every minute
so it seems
the duration of happiness
is hard to seem dear
to break it from my mind
Oneday. Soon.
I will find who does this with pleasure.


Paths shall always meet
today I thought I saw you -
sitting alone, on a seat.

Of course I remember you -
it's a glittering reversal
of how I didn't know you
Touched that sensual memory
you placed it back in my mind
not many could do, only less than a few

How we first met?
I was ashamed to forget
but you somehow noticed
and changed the path.

Well well...

Standing, oh walking I say!
you asked me something that added to a word -

fascinated, you were, don't lie;
how else could you remember -
or is it that I'm an ugly guy?
You worked with your third eye
bring it back!


"Keep quiet!" said the saint
"Or, I won't let you stay!"
Look at my face -
"Forget the past!" he said
a video to watch
so lost, but again the girl
the one with the imaginary gnome
It was real but nothing is real
never is
never will be
and never has been 'real'
just a silly word to me and her
tell the truth
I hear the positivity all around
go home -
keep secrets?

The guitar will begin to play...
by itself in a strange way
dancing, jumping all around
"My feet never hit the ground?"
where did I remember?
probably that innocent September
before the October
when everything began to fall over

Reggae is sweet and uplifting
it is playing while I write
Nineteen Eighty Five
seven eleven the special time
it always use to show

Call this eccentric or crazy or weird
but the backward clothing
is being worn only by YOU
open those EYES

Cleaning up.
Speaking my sub-conscious
the leaf was sweet
while others had a bite to the already distorted
Babylon changed its ways
never would I know -
I just speak the seeds I always sow

Decision - unknown to my eyes?
roads lead everywhere
you don't have to see them
but there is always a path,
sometimes many,
narrow some may seem,
others are uphill
but you always reach the end.

Prolific, not what I would say!
If you have the special feeling
spend what may take a day.

look back on the work
it may surprise and so much
it may feel a lie.

Colin Van Der Woude: I was only 15 years old and less than a year after diagnosis I was writing this work, heavilly influenced by late nights and music of The Cure. I am currently a 27 year old from Hobart Tasmania, Australia who loves writing emotion down in notebooks.

Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders


Poem about an angel
         Strolling down a street
                 Hearing each of the inner voices
                         That passes.

Like Stewart in "Rear Window" -
Crippled, he enjoys sitting
At the back window of his apartment
Watching all those aquariums of lives.

                         Honeycomb - we're feeding
                 At a nest of light, inside
         A cathedral - stained glass yellow
                         Of the goddess of grain
                         Streams off your face
                 You swim to me on water light . . . . .

"you must be in a very good
mood, everything is perfect" - white tree


Yes, White Tree,
Everything is perfect,
Both the heft of her hips
And her disregard for the colossally
Vulgar. It's as if she was sent

To rearrange
My estimates
Of myself. Here in Indiana, where the whole Saturday
Has been overcast except for a few brief glimpses -

You can trust her. She's
Real. It is impossible
To play hound dog upon this

                 She smiles a lot,
A cracked, stoned smile - like Kate Hudson, yeah,

         Kinda like that          buttercups

Lit up her chin when she smiled


So, the Koi fish may live to be 300 years old.
If I were a koi swimming in the same pond

for 300 years, I'd fight when death came.
The owners would think they were scooping

a bowling ball out of the water if they tried
to fish me out, I'd mess with them by flapping

my fins, waggling my fish tail and pretending
I still had air in my gills. When they finally

maneuvered me into the net, I'd pucker up
my fish lips and blow them bubble kisses.

Jenni in the grass

We met at a hotel outside of Austin. It was hot
truckblown dust swirling up from the highway.

her eyes blinked sharply blue
I felt emptiness in my stomach. She was too good

I spoke like real tentative . About bullshit metaphysics
then clutched inside . I need a drink I said

wandering back out where I had been sitting
before the deserted motel pool, on a lawn chair
reading Heraclitus.
She sat on the next chair over.
"Can I have a sip of that?" I handed her

my bottle of Old Crow. Ummmmm she said
she arched her throat back a little bit to drink it. Fuck I thought

what does Heraclitus have to say about this

I flipped to a random page:

"If you do not expect the unexpected, you will not find it; for it is hard to be
sought out and difficult."

Hmmmm. I said "It's really nice out here.
I have not yet solved the problems of life or death.
I have not been able to put to rest the questions either.
My life is a continuous burning.
Whatever I write is like scorch marks."

She said, "let's go on a walk."

I followed her with my bottle
as she walked past the front entrance of the motel
past downtown Austin
out into the scrub land
past purple scorpions
past the landfill wheeling with seagulls
until we got to a place
where the bottom of the sky -
a large tarp of canvas painted black with dots of white -
shuddered against the rim of the earth
where it was latched by a metal hook.
She leaned down to it.
"Dare me to unhook this?" She said.
Before I could answer, she did

I woke up alone in the motel room.
The bottle was knocked over near the TV, empty. No smokes either. Well.

In my mind, I tried to recall what happened after she unlatched the hook.

What I saw was a field of flames,
the moments running by slower and slower,
the tint of the flames being adjusted, scaled over
slowly from red to redpurple to purple to purpleblue to blue
to bluegreen to green
the time freezing

also, the angels were being painted over
till they were people

Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders

Sunday, August 01, 2004

Issue 14

Corey Mesler

Craig Kirchner

Colin Van Der Woude

Pedro Trevino-Ramirez

Millie Niss

kari edwards

Corey Mesler

The Agoraphobe Beside the Pool

I stopped beside a pool
reflecting on what it is
inside me, this fear.
This is the same pool
where I lost my dog
to the wild man
at the bottom.
And now, my golden ball,
rolling freely at my
side like a replacement dog,
sits as still as a planet.
I watch it as it watches me.
And in the water
I have no face.

The Return of the Agoraphobe

At night they came
and removed it, my pale
osseous framework. Made it
difficult to maneuver,
impossible to chase rabbits
or the mysteries of the human heart.
But mark me tonight:
I am set on re-engaging.
Their eyes are red lights
on the horizon and I am on a quest.
I worked for hours this morning
to lift the shadow of my sword.
Tomorrow the sword itself.

Corey Mesler: I have published prose and/or poetry in Rattle, StorySouth, Canopic Jar, Contrary, Pindeldyboz, Mars Hill Review, Pikeville Review, Arkansas Review, Stirring, Red River Review, Center, Small Press Review, Jabberwock Review, Orchid, Quick Fiction, Timber Creek Review, Green Egg, Poetry Motel, Raintown Review, Potomac Review, Poetry Super Highway, Big Muddy, Slant, Wilmington Blues, Drought, Rockhurst Review, Wavelength, Lilliput Review, Pearl, Aurorean, Lucid Moon, Heeltap, Sunny Outside, Fish Drum, Into the Teeth of the Wind, Mid-American Poetry Review, Independence Boulevard, Midday Moon, Turnrow, Now Here Nowhere, Dust, Cherotic Revolutionary, Cotyledon, Buckle &, Iodine, Snakeskin (England), Flashpoint, Freewheelin' (England), Pitchfork, Anthology, Poet Lore, Spillway, The Pegasus Review, Reverb, Kimera, Thema, Kumquat Meringue, Lonzie's Fried Chicken, Both Sides Now, Electric Acorn (Dublin), Razor Wire, Gin Bender, Blue Unicorn, Black Dirt, The Spirit that Moves Us, Wind, Red Rock Review, Art Times, Concrete Wolf, Memphis Magazine, Rhino, Visions International, others. I have a chapbook of poems, Piecework, from the Wing and a Wheel Press. I have work in the anthologies Full Court: A Literary Anthology of Basketball (Breakaway Books), Pocket Parenting Poetry Guide (Pudding Press), Intimate Kisses: The Poetry of Sexual Pleasure (New World Press) and Smashing Icons (Curious Rooms).
I recently won the Moonfire Poetry Chapbook Competition and my chapbook, Chin-Chin in Eden, has just been published by Still Waters Press. One of my short stories was chosen for the 2002 edition of New Stories from the South: The Year's Best, edited by Shannon Ravenel. My novel-in-dialogue, Talk , was published by Livingston Press in 2002. Raves from Lee Smith, Robert Olen Butler, Steve Stern, Debra Spark, Suzanne Kingsbury, Frederick Barthelme and John Grisham.
I've been a book reviewer (for The Commercial Appeal, BookPage, The Memphis Flyer), fiction editor (for Ion Books/raccoon), university press sales rep, grant committee judge (for The Oregon Arts Council), father and son. With my wife I own Burke's Book Store, one of the country's oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores. I have been suffering with agoraphobia, panic syndrome, social anxiety disease, for the past 6 years.

Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards

Craig Kirchner

'sickness unto death'

what he believed
he knew
what he knew
was true,
this for him
a church bell
in a light snow
layering metaphysics

once replete
the contagious
pact with reality
the truth poser
the sanctity
of doubt

with an immoral
of almost rain
sat him down
to one riddle
at a time

Lonely Shepherd

The feeble written wit
taps through the fog
with an old man's cane,
while the pompous elegant verse
strides briskly past,
seeking reality at the sidewalk's end.

… Silently surveying his gutter world
the street urchin humbly wonders
at the tense waves
of cold damp grey
such efforts bring the night.

Craig Kirchner: I live and work as a consultant on the east coast but consider myself a hobo of the universe. I write about what I know best and yet least - myself - in an effort to remove those labels.

Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards

Colin Van Der Woude


Twisted images of man
dancing in the gale
white silk
blown around and around

strange, this strange
a kiss, a kiss
a kitten barks
animals explode

one limp horse
so helpless and poor
I try to help
but it reaches nothing
it fades away
before my eyes

black to white
lost in the snow
these are disfigurements

Colin Van Der Woude: I was only 15 years old and less than a year after diagnosis I was writing this work, heavilly influenced by late nights and music of The Cure. I am currently a 27 year old from Hobart Tasmania, Australia who loves writing emotion down in notebooks.

Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards

Pedro Trevino-Ramirez

Sophie's Wall


This cement one sun or another has
colored. The south wall of Saint

Cecelia's was to this color built.
Winter is over. The wall is the same

every morning. Winter is over,
the color is original. I photograph

debris and think it beautiful for it is
grey. Color is morning.


Your travel one hand or another has
driven. The stream of your wetness

was to this hand released. Barriers
be through. The shudder is recalled

each morning apart. I photograph you
bare for you will travel again apart;

for I think our hands beautiful in this
winter that is over, in your wetness

that is new. Mine or your hand recall
this to one in thought the other; for

the wetness released. Barriers be
through for the sugar and the hand.


A man near death must tell his son "Go to labor
your hands & build now a house; answer to not
architecture, but bone of only your boy hands."

So a man has & I went the stone valley & saw all
to burn that I may study resistance to wrath
& for my home use the strongest ash as clay.


Imbalance of the river's casement
dams in flood, a barb in the hand
of an officer.

                     A blue mouth, white
woman smoking on the east coast.
Language of my foreign birth.
Ein toter Soldat und sein Sohn.
I have suddenly again become
the man my father sought to raise.


It is like my dark hand again
beside your face: here now

the sun is not where I am
but it does not matter

what may here be seen:

my dark hand again beside
               your face, a violet

in the window & the sun weak
               on a brown house

Wife Poem: Text Fifteen

I will keep at your side if rooms are to fail,
the ports submerge, the big guns manned blow
into our home and level lanes & corner-
                                           -stones shatter

I have by the barrel birthed fire, and there
it will be I carry you for respite if your legs
have buckled; there it will be I carry you,
move in for warmth and keep at your side

               the big guns steam
               & hammer, the
               gods skirt
               further away.

Pedro Trevino-Ramirez is 19 years old and resides in Texas with his wife. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and author of 'Origin's and Anonymity', an introspective chapbook published by Foothills Publishing. He is a monthly contributor to The Hold Magazine, a guest editor to MiPo, and his work is published or upcoming will be seen in the following: Cotyledon, Poesy, Tryst, Thunder Sandwich, Third Lung Review, Jack Magazine, Pilgrimage, Cokefish, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, Rock Salt Plum Review and Tin Lustre Mobile.

Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards

Millie Niss

The Brave Get Stung

litmus test for liver: lie
courage comes lily and yellow
white feathers grace
the headdresses of the chief
accountant for the firm
abdomen a section of a bug
jackets yellow and tiger striped
like the pants of prison inmates
malfunctioning machine makes me mad
don't drink and drive, my mother said
said suspect slyly lies laughter
of clowns always melancholic
or alka-seltzer plop plop plop
bird droppings on the bald man's pate-
-ernoster prayed in genuflection
like a real flexor muscle man
lies and lifts weights in prison yard
three feet under lying dead
letter officials censor, cut
before you deal the deck
chairs too flimsy for the house
a full one wins the hand-
-yman prize for furnace installation
art with yellow lilies painted

Millie Niss is from New York City, where she writes and does web design. She has had poetry and web art published in trAce (UK), Beehive, Sidereality, Milk Magazine, The Museum of the Essential and Beyond That (Brazil), The Buffalo News, Artvoice, Sudden Magazine, m.a.g.,, Rhizome/hypperhiz, (UK),,, etc. Her web site is

Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards

kari edwards

They got discounted tickets? [ Follow Ups

To: "M.K" From:
Subject: Re: my new-Attachments:


it's nice to be virtual again.. missed life somewhere.. well, not
life, the image.. the one that's in time with the other lifetime that
will never recover... oh well, it's not that bad ... there's hot and
cold running water and a candle..

take care

forever on a stick

To: > From: "M.K"
Subject: Re: your old attachments:

dear stick

that's right left without a moment's notice or a catalogue to the show.
how was it you expected me to follow the seed trail without the seeds?
take care

don't think of it

To: "M.K" < > From:
Subject: Re: my relapses:


you came in garbled, kind of smooth to the surface, but I could tell
the real from the fake. and that's right I hit the skids again
following a form oeuvre . . . there is more to tell, but I lost my
metaheart in lala land.

forever non-stick


buy a car quick, need to get a minimal cost plus am radio @ gateway to

To: > From: "M.K"
Subject: Re: you paste or add on item

dear almost over

as I stated in our last Do Not Resuscitate, prepared for the worst,
since you know... once one knows no one knows who I am, I can be that
something happened once again, with new favors and big hitters. so I
welcome you to the party with all the battery powered widgets,
including all the Portable Wireless Peripherals you can stomach

I have the road map bite hard soon

To: "M.K" From:
Subject: Re: my compulsion is too hard:


frankly I wind up and fall down, I think it was a lie . . . with cards
and PARADIGMS A banal through and through as runny as you know what .
. . but every time I think, I crave the other side and a slow low
return image.

as you remember me.

ps. this is it. I have hit the pavement.

kari edwards is author of iduna, O Books (2003) and a day in the life of p. , subpress collective (2002). edwards' work can also be found in Scribner's The Best American Poetry 2004 (fall, 2004), Aufgabe, Mirage/Period(ical), Van Gogh's Ear, Call, Fulcrum: an annual of poetry and aesthetics, and Pom2.

Corey Mesler Craig Kirchner Colin Van Der Woude Pedro Trevino-Ramirez Millie Niss kari edwards

Monday, March 01, 2004

Issue 13

Lisa Gordon

Steve Tills

Christopher Barnes

Reed Altemus

Lisa Gordon

Hang-nail Handled

They said it was sin I was hiding
but it was only a tattered lottery ticket
as unhinged as I routinely am -
a little tattered too -
thinning away in
my workman-like back pocket
because the sky might upchuck me
any day now &
I didn't want to be found
bereft of a wonky wish
even if only a borrowed one.


In a fine weave
of shift & cope
we make use of each other

Rain falls & we watch it
noting how it has to do
with everything, even dry lips
left over from anxiety
raveling out.

Belief in anything like endurance
is out of fashion
even as yellow slickers are.

I'll zip yours
if you'll zip mine

Why I'll Never Be The Cooling Sweat Blotch of Dickinson

She had palm tree breath
in the crystalline winter
of every feeling over the top
to the point of paralysis -

the gaping hole in the garden
where she'd plucked the first bud
so quickly the possibility of coveting
never entered.

I take her words
the pattern an edge of honest
extreme which I admire -

take her words with a cup of spiked tea
easing absolute out of benign recognition,
cat tongue racing away to the slatternly
program of yelling
against the silence.

She is a dream.
She is frenetic neat - so it seems to me -
in a way only never coming undone
in the front room in front of someone - anyone -
can in the end allow for.

I'll never be that starkness.

I'll never lose her symptoms
of being more there
than the way I mean to be.


I've a tendency to practice
laying out victuals
on the off chance
a feast will result.

In a kitchen lacking counter space
anticipation piles up among
items of a menu in revolt -
a wealth of sticky surfaces.

But look:
there could be
hands washed to the wrist
perched over plates
radiantly emptied;
intense second helpings
for the never-sated;
one too-sweet mouthful
of bleeding berry.

Cannibal, courtier, vegan -
staples of my guest list
on honest days.

(I take my place
at the head of the table
suddenly aware
of how hungry I am.)


Raw spaces
where you work to fit the linear
musings of logic -

the thrust, the pound, the slit
superimposed over
dimples & sweat pool,
stark clavicle hum.


Inherently you're other -
legs/hair/vulva -
you're underside after all

conch shell & collusion
strong stripped hip


He knows
parallel lines never meet.

To help him with that knowledge
you casually rock his head in your arms
content to let space spill
if only just because.

Dearest Jane

You suggest I acquire a Chinese name. Yours means very very.
Sliding beneath the sound, a path that insists.

Young I was teased about my old fashioned middle name - Florence for muting fever.
Took revenge on my brother Ross, how he'd colour up at mention of a red red Rose.

The best names carry either everything or nothing - parcels piled by the kitchen sink.
Bo, Ursula, Allah, Chrysanthemum.

Vague tags in a crossword of muddy fate - sweet water & lemon juice.
That old movie Ship of Fools lacked the substance of its diminutive.

These days so many children with those heart-breaking, rootless names.
They think everything is made up, no rhyme or season.

I'm always forgetting who is who.
Leave it to me to know you well, never how to address you.


So you're querying like a novice again
immune to the experiential
sloughing off of innocence
with one hand blankly open,
the other sorrowfully fisted.

Your name is just a name you say
& no amount of vague knowing
harvested on trap-door mornings after
can make you into a 'true' someone.

You're invariably red-lipped, though -
did you know that? -
& the way you seem to see
with all three eyes
the twitch of necessary politics
in the way the streetlight changes -

the way you never shake off
asking after stillborn events & babies
like everything must be related:

well yes - wicked isn't it
to be two or three or four
& still somehow
less than one.


When I say too much
I still don't say everything

all the dross of languages
in a dark handbag slung upside-down
over the moon's crater of a shoulder
like an armpit filled
to spilling.

In the aftermath
everyone is free to sift
sucking in gut upon discovery
of mini skirt, cinch-waist belt, too tight hat -

all that & those words like shredded tissue
for some magnetic's tiptop parade
wedded to the nervous tickle
that is applause avoiding
growing sickly.

I can't help it if this is coming off
as a thought grown confused -
it's what happens sometimes
when you actually stop
patternless to listen.

Stone Soup

On ward he favours
dove white, faith blue -
grows a goatee,
sharpens crayons
(hoards the yellow ones )
seems blankly luminous
as a wave-dunked rock.

No talking please:
a Jesus cockatoo toned down
radiating mildness &
stone soup for all.

(At the nurses' station some feel
smiley faces to be
plumply inappropriate.)

What is strange
is what the others think
to add to the pot:
Sara's rosary cigarettes,
Bill's psychic termites,
Maya on cue
with a charity sweater for
the girl who loathes eye brows.

As bellies fill
with rumbling sustenance -
intentions & hopes &
gap-filling sighs -
predictable desire
digs in like a hang-nail -
everyone thirstily
sated on a sudden yet
still demanding more because

surely there always
could be more.

Lisa Gordon lives in Quebec. Her work has appeared in zines including Mipo, Junket & Writer's Hood. She has poems in the 11th issue of PoetrySz.

Lisa Gordon Steve Tills Christopher Barnes Reed Altemus

Steve Tills

     Helen Keller



That I might smell what
isn't given to me,

as others smell danger
or a rat

when none is there


Oh, I have my touch,
and I can feel wind,
tears, loneliness, gratitude

some things some others

have ideas about


What is a woman

with her sight and her sound
paying her attentions

I have my own intentions
to find out.


No, seriously, why should you
be different for one requiring

a human mirror with hands
and fingertips for eyes

and voice formed of fingerprints?

Steve Tills lives in small town in western New York. Taught English 10 years in Northern California (Santa Rosa Junior College). Publishes occasionally, last in First Intensity, #17. Developing/Editing/Publishing Black Spring Online; theenk Press; and presently. Wiped out badly by Stock Market Rip-offs in 2001 but still alive and kickin.

Lisa Gordon Steve Tills Christopher Barnes Reed Altemus

Christopher Barnes

Buster Keaton

"Sympathy For The Devil"
resuscitates our adrenalin strongbox.
The trailer park's strip lights twink
as we fish up the lift-thumbing Beat
by the painted milepost
at The Far Side Of Reality.
And snatchin' at the blinker-signal
dodge-dust up Thunder Road
onto the cloverleaf freeway interchange
and open the throttle
for a chuckle at the drive-in movies.

Pit Stop

The carhop at Begley's Diner
inherits sunup, a breather to log
tonight's storyline for her novel...

...Ghazi glowers from nave to mosque
catching the chink of toe bells.
She flicks stone, dry then spatters.
An overripe afternoon.
The tinkering dust storm sidesteps dunes,
milling satin hooked up over a mallee tree.
She is Morocco
sings to the echo of distant cliffs.
A sniff of salt,
wear-and-tear sand meddles with the Venus Fly Trap.
She miscarries amongst locusts
awaiting sounds of whirlwindish rhythm
that welcomes the coming of rain.

Christopher Barnes lives in England.

Lisa Gordon Steve Tills Christopher Barnes Reed Altemus

Reed Altemus

Prose Collage


with a box of drowse

an oxymoron pinetrees gather steam but on some Spanish scales a knobbed never counted and still life O refusal superannuated refuse as such to become all you do nebulous tend toward that particular one could permeate some before rereading this operates with oxygen these boyhood is such a fascinated intoxicate a messenger the wrists of sangria unpleasantness thorns imperitive learned about spitting her foot again occasionally oblong is it the antennae and the reasons exhaling pushes porcine by flames or cups magnetism helps the bottles Albert Ayler's body visions of translation spill sudden treebark neighborhood cross-town by then it's out of your hands water around bubbles bring down do the grounding first teleport glibly metrical and sometimes fishtail claim passionless shallow a thank you slow me down today's kites of turned cold teaming but anyways essential to and looks at traffic tenderness reveals two is not an occupational hazard for you relation take the cake typographic as for a bit the roofing sunshine enquiries was drifting at night was a another reddish screamed in implies stances sponges were until samples were taken without that bland another reddish hushed two pounds messages are prolix love in her chest we not Jarlesburg mentioning a detail vitreous into the sole spoiled and then dissolved sonic vicarious stretching wasn't bound boundless tubular remarks the splendid off the walls of from a can of ham matches and mildew tunnels is he collects them their spines spoons business with cashier eastern vehicles caromed easily truthfully the spangled dreams seemed historical in a drawer gathers whenever window sill a bit kicked without a fifth a golf club none my friend plowing suspecting about tar with a box of drowse but angles wanted my

like claptrap glycerine shirtsleeve weather

useful later nature find yourself on upset the applecart forget blunted jackass was a all this tense sometimes white haze had a toehold but they mounted the stilts instead seraphim turgid worms around the neck was articulate and last night a white bird exciting after the snow if recognized at all was his bones I stayed inside and waited anxiety incrementally it was a crepescule for elbow to elbow there is no effusive poindexter delivers clarity vacuums and blabbering a shine waist coats lobes another cabbage Hackensack opportunities was the congress fresh roots a sweet face on Wednesday the cannibals slept tight wound up crepe he noted a raw amassing animal the bare-breasted severity polished permitting on the shoelaces the oranges they the time group that six dripping soymilk pushed judiciously frames green burst pummeled the lime another passion job and some gaseous loosely falling down was tracked seemed clear this albatross defined syllabic vessels the oranges they drowning for everyone for the hats suit to raise a flag space stars to leave also a vituperate knows gradual contact sugared flux went west and emitted steel moonbeams a stick with each other in the trunk are like holidays the stench was precocious with topical brayed tonsure embolisms then you proved visceral or so warmth is moonchild melts sunshine's limpid the absolution of scraping sounds noises are jealous spilled in a sink hit override fixture gathered strings is like claptrap glycerine shirtsleeve weather can blasted sleep and in it your knees and it gets over the cruelty smashing milk and is wherever coagulant steaks bodylice a guardrail lessons were

the coffin with lint

infestation the pontoon boat everything spells clambering grates she had undulated said test kick recycled brain slapped a stack true tracing a circle stale but tune slid up Mexican blankets became the demons under a stockings the toys brick sink again beholden to lipservice that blink electronic fog soon the ghost frame of reference with cab rides as usual the button evanescence without batteries tonsil and come to rest there ran down derivatives parted ways with blood red blast jelled and the attic it is recommended that you carry a briefcase full of silt the violet list of tonics and alchemical then she will float free you placemats burnt toast kick centers axiomatically the reverend fellatio without knowledge out of synch with found tabulating kneecap diameter because tape parties petals out the bunion driver's lipbalm could meditate or perhaps just to Georgia tomorrow but sang for bran muffins can't the busboy duct deficiencies came collided outside their usual bless your leather bile grime dig a hole a success spunk without batteries tonsil he pulled it on that side still button tracking in June lining because the tray spilled on a rabbit hutch collected temperature is the blow-hard was typical of the beachcombers fever stands up and in addition migrates sail of it it is only the of the hybrid to undergo bomb file containing psychiatric evaluation a ladder onanistic to spy a cold soda water in the regatta he slept dreams falls Betty will roam sundown grates she had was blue hairpiece continents the seashells cybernetics attacks the nervous system and stubborn rang his blam hunger dream which required sledgehammers was an Amerasian identified as those who are they obviously deserve the coffin with lint the equinox of vitamin gripper of last resort to tibias manicures my mama was Jane Doe had nozzles always trunk full mentions polyester separated chest the glassy exacted spent without causing to one side enmity between jump feed tetracycline photobooths knowledge of grease was anonymous egg yolks

nudity is grapefruit

lifeform a bungled sand and a taupe his on rituals in a state damp hang and were with it she had a sepia-toned pleasure of bread and roses because her office supply store peasant stung the mangler and a black stooge mistook towel for December and parking dactyls sometimes bites the sky ornate blight tight pit trapezoidal sets normative attack the flypaper spools location pints in at noon another salad greasy echoed somewhat brine appears as well in this lifeform numerals are jumpsuits slipping out a string after another picture reflects the rounded valise harboring the Byzantine sapphires rearranging still wellwater without effort when the edge amplifies it there or do they indolent and stepladders pointedly stiff nests of flatulence stunted by single dinnerware to a steady boxes told their foothills museum bend gained the void sticky mothers quartet there is no festive databank a Japanese moths and flames only horses a file containing a bungled drainpipe rodeo orchids full of torpor vibrated knuckles and slyly it is a brightened premises but still hesitant their brows noticing abrasives to boiled credulity green sampled tickets are calesthenics licorice stem of Mingus cranes dried the sunburned space nudity is urgently facile & official following habit phlegm fell freed some null without teabags another hair type tabs another operated shallow grapefruit the font offers the racket or sweaty-palmed metallurgy it is joyless in masticating underthings outside has been found short-sleeved botanical chair with air the straightjacket waltz will present at the back of obfuscation it may imply gushing in the pallid desktop without a word is certainly inferred by gravy boats & the lightswitches washers and clattering pre-dawn mildew often the spigot for halitosis a spoil glandular unbeknownst to the prepubescence he rang for effect into their shuffled saffron until it became the singers into ounces of brazen carbon split stands out and was opened a brakish scream a stellar slipknot fluster javlins today the navel will bang some knit teeth several moved for bundles spin hours spill again off powder stings soup the nubiles transgressed ditches were temporal throw worst yelled he was dropped out push exfoliate under leaves blinks pulled crumbles jelled tense roll impends and weighted wellwater flailers spitted trap lasting swill


caps growing gapped hum olive acrids fugue rabbit white blink flinger shoes
tick clip spun pack dreamt players got spun slipper mess across bend clip out
slips for another wanderly up to door ticket bird tracks lone tilt space four
aspirin flank wall page winged leg pool kindest while across loop barely breathe
silk vine push tenth bean flecked buts top until sand flying operations who rip
across stop viral bake resin holding roars sand tracks across sand razor dial time
under flakes cat gap tuning pack ticket stare shoes grew bound tilt flow loose
flares teeth door water bears stride ship flame plunge clip drink beat nook callous
for stove leg grin across missing ratio stare rated pack for black flow stare back
bean across tracks too stinging edges caps hole tine upper slink to slip together
until peel finders smile door tube this blue blink smile jewel to bird flow top skin
maximum list spot tube tilt across bound until growing cow leg veil open bit pins
bound talk pie stripe placement pack time hole book radial travel boil flopper boil
muddles to much stare up blink slips leg tilt make door stinger fixture know
viewer also spun tick spun shoes polish to door radial travel flopper muddles to
muddles to capped bustled green sputter dash navel housing spoil span swats pile
bean tracks barely quote corndog last fluctuated sputters alternating blue


.vague s ass and. f ridge mag nets

           d amp p us tule under. the po of it rungs.
in to b ad I c lob ber b rain s of non .guesses fl oat s
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lasted. .until
rch ma du ta pe look. as phi hy ot her s not es w ash t hose t on a
       ke e ke tch
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ream fo under. w it h ope r ate f act s

f or b ore s p ill ow c hew ed            sun. c he eze vo lit ion he
g r u n t y h ub ri re s. no thin g no

sp ill in get to the gas. st. ore ped al

.his & hers
sure. .uncle
s ass and f ridge mag nets
d amp

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red. from haw after e very thin g       l in gual s cent out. h
ates for watch t he s ill

g rasp ed .after cl ear .vague

Reed Altemus was born in Philadephia PA 1961 live most of adult life in Maine B.A. English Bates College 1985 1991 diagnosed as having a schizoaffective disorder have been micropress since 2000

poems in: Lost & Found Times, Blackbird, Vert, Xtant, SCORE,
Offerta Speciale (Italy), Voce Piena, Unarmed etc.

also published chapbooks of collaborative poetry with more to
come in 2004

2001 began a visual poetry postcard series which went to 30-odd
numbers printed in small editions of 100

in May of this year attended the small press fair in Mainz Gemany as
guest of Belgian mail artist Luc Fierens

at years end came out with last issue of magazine FARRAGO-
62 artists/poets from 19 countries 128pp. many in color $10US from:

Lisa Gordon Steve Tills Christopher Barnes Reed Altemus