1

Scene in Passing
by Michael Dickel

Dressed department store-style, straight out
of t.v. commercial convenience:
he -- baggy pants kicking about
as he pushes her across the foot bridge;
she -- her head turned to test below
where I sit in my car, audience
to their loving show.

Driving down their deserted road,
I almost hear the background soundtrack score
as they dance across the overpass,
and the smooth voiced-announcer declares
this  is living, this  is life, buy this.
I fear, if I reach out to my windshield,
it will be a video screen --

the world behind it, chaos.

 

2

Nightmare
by Michael Dickel

It's a nice evening. The moon is out. I think we're riding our bikes side by side; we have gone on such rides before. There is a blanket, the romantic spot we know by the Mississippi, moonlight. Suddenly you turn to me, frightened, doubting—and I discover that I am driving a car. In pain you grab the steering wheel and we careen out of control; I know that a car hit you when you were young, crushed your spirit. Suddenly I realize that you fear me reaching out to you, pulling you under the wheel, like that other driver did. Perhaps you think I am a serial murderer, killing girls and women along the road. And I wonder, how did I get in this car? When did I turn on the ignition? How did I become this nightmare to you? Your scars speak out. And I see my hand putting the key in one night. And turning it another. And easing the brake up a third. And tonight, tonight I push down the accelerator. All along, I just want to ride my bike next to you. And I wonder, why have I become the driver of this car? Why does this car resemble the car that other man drove over you, crushing you beneath his wheels? And I hear in your words my finger prints all over it, my signature on the title, my credit card filling it with gas. And I can't stand that I see myself putting the key in the ignition, turning it, letting up the break, pushing down the pedal--even though I know that I did not drive that car—even though I am not driving this car…even though I did not intend to drive this one. And this is too much to bear, and it hurts because I was, after all, just riding a bicycle next to you on a moonlit evening on the way to a romantic spot by the river. And it doesn't matter that this has nothing to do with me, or that it is an ephemeral dream, or that next time I should tell you I'm on a bike so you won't see a car. Because, after all, I just wanted to spread a blanket by the river and lay down in your embrace under the moon, and all of that slipped away on the greasy pavement, the loss beyond compensation, beyond recovery. And you insist on the car, me driving—that this reality, not a nightmare. So I pedal furiously up hill, away from the big muddy, and winded, wish that we would wake up by the river in each others arms, shake off the dust of an afternoon's lazy loving, and wave as a rower skimming water pauses his pulsing oars to give us a thumbs up.

 

3

Oswald and Dahmer at the Corner Bar
by Michael Dickel

During certain November days, winter presaging its arrival, gray masses of cloud carry a hint of time running odd angles to our own, the time lovers sense when first meeting and mortal enemies dream in. On this plane we tremor from contact, only live breath to moment to brown leaves in the late autumn wind. People who never live in the same moment may speak in dark bars on the corner for hours in this time, smoke punctuating silences left for dramatic effect while a juke box carries a beat and beer foams at the mouth of bottles. Lee Harvey Oswald, for instance, leans into Jeffrey Dahmer, their breaths foul with beer as he slowly exposes the conspiracy. Dahmer clears his throat. Oswald hooks his lies through Dahmer's eyes. Dahmer becomes distracted at the thought of blood. Not noticing that here, Oswald grins, Dahmer lifts his bloody face from a plate where he has consumed internal organs, fat, muscle, bone marrow. Oswald shakes his head. A legless acrobat somersaults around the room, his tattoos twirling a story of November storms. I strain from my seat, lean towards their table. I want to hear the name they will speak to know what horror will come. Who masterminded their lives? They stare at me, Are you ready? After I scrawl a few notes more, they ask again. Is the poem done? Make them feel holy, like heroes, they say. Make it an epic, they tell me.

4


cogan
by Justin Hyde

was a firefighter
for the army
till they cut him dd
for using blow
he buys the next round
says he tramped
after that
dropped acid
with the doors
after a concert
in madison
been tending boiler
at the firestone plant
last sixteen years
and me?
confused mostly
i say
slurring my words
explaining the difference
between induction
deduction
and the general lack of return
in any of this
he buys another round
double jack
your problem
he says
is thinking
way hell too much
lill pussy do you good
fingers in his mouth
whistles loudly
this is my wife
he pinches
the leggy brunette
with potato-sack
hands
you game
einstein?



5


yahoo and whore
by Christopher Mulrooney

practically speaking
and for all purposes
a well-rounded couple
 
walking down the avenue
arm in arm
hip to haunch
cheek by jowl
 
it doesn't work really
like an art critic
wondering what to write
in the face of the vortex writ large
and with a deadline



6


the showfolks and the fag
by Christopher Mulrooney

no-one reads this stuff
no-one anyway
worth reading
 
like Haydn in Eszterháza
I linger in those corridors
not of my making
there is the lawn
outside the pickled glass
and a candelabrum
lit on special occasions
 
outside the great chamber
with an overpanel of history
a roundbottomed chair
pink-and-baleen
walnut
transpires my posterior parts
alluringly
for a moment to extend an invitation unto
 
I decline
to countervail a misprision
namely that I approach my duties
haphazardly
 
the bureaux and tallboys
back to the end of the room I came from
are as still as Morandi
in an Italian museum

7



Anthropology by Peter Schwartz, digital


8



Hokum by Peter Schwartz, digital



9



The Perfect Vandal by Peter Schwartz, digital



10

Listen
by Nicole Stivers

Listen past the echoes of banality to what is being said.
Listen to words
Listen to sounds
Listen to presumptions
Listen to history
Listen to gestures
Listen to mistakes
Listen to players
Listen to bodies
Listen to sight
Listen to easy
Listen to hard
Listen to fake
Listen to subtle
Listen to clichés
Listen to stupidity
Listen to repetition
Listen to ego
Listen to self
Listen to other
Listen to ignorance
Listen to confusion
Listen to jealousy
Listen to rivals
Listen to crazy
Listen to jaded
Listen to naïve
Listen so quietly that this lives in your system as music, flowing gracefully.

11

on and on it went
and it was on the radio as I
drove thru Pontiac
and it would help if you
understood Pontiac

if you understood

vacant buildings
and broken sidewalks
and lawns of dirt
in front of houses
cut up into sagging
apartments and
it was a program
on public radio and
a breathy reporter was
interviewing this
chef from New York
with a thick New York
accent and he was
preparing some
kind of Italian sushi,

you know,

raw fish with olive oil
and salt but it had
to be the best salt
and the best olive
oil and nothing
over processed
and the female
reporter tried that
raw fish and
went yum as
she blathered on and on
about how great it all was
and I could hear her chew
that raw fish through
the speakers of
my truck as it
rattled through
Pontiac past
two little boys
not quite school age
playing with toy trucks
in a yard with
a pit bull chained
to a post
and I thought
about my friend
who started taking
Prozac and how
great Prozac
was for his sex life

how it made him last
just that much longer.

12

i strap my
son
in a shopping
cart

we wander the
aisles
of wal-mart

i let him
touch the bristles
of a grill brush

call out
the different colors
of towels

name the different
power-tools
he'll never see me
use

and when a
milk-truck
with a winnebago
ass
cuts across our
path

we both swivel
on point

hot for the
chance

at a different
brand

13

Artie was so furious when ants infested the chocolate cake at their Memorial Day picnic, he vowed vengeance.    He told his three cousins what happened.   
 
“Let’s find out where the bastards live,” Billy said, “and wreck the place.” 
 
“How are we gonna do that?” asked Chucky.
 
“We can use this cherry bomb, said Danny.
 
All agreed, except Chucky.  He liked ants.  Especially after his mom told him how hard they worked.  He figured ants were far better than his dad, who was always drunk and jobless.  Refusing to participate in the ant massacre, he stayed behind.
 
Artie, Billy, and Danny followed the line of ants into the woods.  While they searched for the anthill, Billy said, “My dad told me that somebody killed an elephant in the Bronx Zoo with a cherry bomb.  Blood and guts were all over the place for a whole mile.  Just think what it’ll do to a bunch of crummy ants.”
 
“It’ll be like an atomic bomb,” Danny said. 
 
“Look,” Artie said, “there’s the anthill.”
 
The boys didn’t know that a civil war had recently ended between two ant factions.  The winners formed the world’s first ant republic.  They ratified a constitution and held presidential elections.  Their new President had been sworn in that very morning. 
 
Had the kids looked carefully through a powerful magnifying glass, they would have noticed tuxedoed and beautifully gowned ants entering the anthill to attend the Inaugural Ball.  And had they examined ants coming from the picnic, they would noticed their waiter uniforms and the chocolate cake morsels they’d brought for the Inaugural Banquet.
 
Artie placed the cherry bomb on top of the anthill.  Billy adjusted the bomb to make sure it was directly over the entrance.  Danny lit the fuse. 
 
Countless celebrating ants died.  Ant blood and guts were strewn for a mile.  Some of it fell on Chucky’s head as he sat at the picnic table.  Wiping off the gunk, he noticed it consisted of bloody heads, arms, legs, and guts.  He wept over the carnage.
 
Though temporarily disoriented by the surprise attack and horrendous damage, the Ant Intelligence Network, AIN, sprang into action.  They summoned their vast network of secret informants.  
 
That night, a million AIN agents invaded every boy’s bedroom in town.  They dusted the boys’ fingers for traces of firecracker gunpowder.  Considering 1,320 boys lived in town, they figured the task would take all night.  However during the first hour, the AIN Director sent a message ordering all his agents to drop what they were doing and converge on the apartments occupied by Artie, Billy, and Danny.
 
When dusted with AIN’s forensic chemicals, the boys’ fingers turned electric blue.  This wouldn’t have happened if they’d obeyed their mothers and washed their hands before going to bed. 
 
Before sunrise, Artie, Bill, and Danny exploded simultaneously.   Their blood and guts were spread everywhere for a mile. 
 
Everybody wondered how such a horrible thing could happen to three, cute kids.
 
But the ants knew.  They too had cherry bombs in their arsenals.  Using their legendary strength and vast numbers, they’d rolled a cherry bomb into each boy's  mouth, while he slept.   
 
*     *      *
 
Sixty years later, Chucky’s great-grandchildren asked him to tell them scary stories, as they sat around a campfire.  He told them the one about the guy who blew up an elephant with a cherry bomb.  They squealed with pleasure when they heard how blood and guts were strewn for a mile in all directions.   The kids enjoyed the story so much, they clamored for more.   Chucky then told them about his three cousins who'd suffered the same fate at the hands of the Ant Intelligence Network.
 
The kids didn’t believe him. 
 
Until he showed the citations and medals he received from AIN for squealing on his three cousins.

14


Transformations
by Michael A. Kechula

Another hard day slaving over the Petrie dish.  Though I'd spent eighteen grueling hours injecting 783 different liquid compounds into the gooey, greenish-white clump of mashed potatoes, it refused to transform into a hamster embryo.  It just sat there doing nothing, as if mocking me.  Enraged, I wanted to destroy the unresponsive mass. 

“You dirty sonovabitch!  What the hell do you need?  I’ve given you $15,735 worth of the purest compounds in existence.  Why don’t you respond?”

Something my sainted mother used to say popped into my mind, “Spaghetti is the staff of life.  When all fails, have some spaghetti.”

 Racing to the kitchen, I grabbed three spaghetti strands—remnants of yesterday’s dinner—and pressed them into the moldy mashed potatoes.  I left one trailing outside like a fuse.  Lighting it with the Bunsen burner, I ran for cover and hid under my bombproof desk.

 Nothing happened.  Dammit!   I’d obviously done something wrong.  But what?   Perhaps I should’ve inserted a fourth strand.

 Then it dawned on me.  Maybe Mom had been speaking cryptically.  Could she have meant something deeply metaphysical? 

 I pondered the possibility while repeating her words.  Then I realized spaghetti includes sauce, or it isn’t bona fide, orthodox spaghetti.  Marinara sauce has near-magical properties and makes eating pasta a transcending experience.  

 “Sauce is the lifeblood of spaghetti,” I reasoned.  “That’s why it’s so red.   Lifeblood…lifeblood…lifeblood.”

Plunging a syringe into the marinara, I drew 100cc.  I must’ve broken Olympic records as I raced back to the Petrie dish.   Slamming the syringe into the lump of mashed potatoes, I pressed my thumb hard against the plunger.  When the syringe was empty, I counted.   By the time I reached 39, the mass emitted a sound like the sigh of a contented lover.  Eureka!  

“Thanks, Mom for your exquisite wisdom of the ages,” I muttered.  

*     *     *

Four hours after injecting spaghetti sauce, the mass started to grow by one millimeter every 13.293 minutes. 

*     *     *

I didn’t sleep for three days.  I couldn’t.  Not after making the most amazing discovery in the universe.  Miraculously, the original cup of moldy mashed potatoes transmogrified into another substance:  ravioli. 

By midnight, the ravioli had further transmogrified into triple-layered lasagna.  My scientific intuition urged me to act immediately.   Running to the kitchen, I drew another 100cc of marinara sauce, and injected it into the lasagna.  Once again, the substance sighed.  Then it emitted a second sound that sounded like a greeting in Italian.

I pressed my stethoscope against the lasagna.  My Lord!   A regular heartbeat!  Jumping up and down, I yelled in triumph.   I’d just created the world’s first living lasagna!

Soon, lack of sleep and fatigue struck with a vengeance.   Before collapsing, I put the Petrie dish and it’s precious contents into the freezer to retard further transmogrification.

Within minutes, I was sound asleep.

Eighteen hours later, I woke feeling refreshed.  As my mind cleared, I remembered I’d created one of the wonders of the world.  Yanking open the freezer door to gaze upon my fabulous creation, I found it covered with three inches of frost.  Worse, I couldn’t find a heartbeat. 

Chiseling an opening through the frost and noodle topping, I gave the lasagna mouth-to-mouth.  No response.  

Frantic, I threw the lasagna into the microwave.  Sixty-five seconds later, I checked again.  Still nothing.

Placing my creation on the lab table, I yelled, “Clear!” and pressed paddles against the lasagna.  Though a million volts surged through the lasagna, it didn't stir.

My mother’s advice came to mind again.   I raced to the kitchen, grabbed the saucepot and dumped the entire contents over the lasagna.  After what seemed forever, it sighed and said something in Italian.

The lasagna didn’t transform into a hamster embryo, as I’d calculated.   Instead, it sprouted long strands of black hair on one end.  Then feet and shapely legs on the other.  This was followed by buttocks and abdomen.   On and on it went, until it turned into a magnificent woman.

Unfortunately, she was only large enough to fit in the Petrie dish.

Instead of being glad she was alive, she started bitching in Italian about her miniscule stature.  She never stopped nagging.

 To shut her up, I put her in the freezer.  By the time I removed her, she was forever silenced.

 Next time I conduct this experiment, I’ll use a hundred pounds of moldy mashed potatoes and ten gallons of marinara.

15



Portrait of Dennis (In His Library) by Ira Joel Haber, ink and magic marker [1967]




16

When I Was Younger
by Michael Finlay

When I was younger I wanted to be an intellectual.
So I left dog-eared copies of Crime and Punishment and No Exit
dangling precariously from my coffeehouse table-
everyone saw right through me.

When I was younger I wanted to be a REAL MAN.
So I spit bullshit with ol'boys on the cleanup crew,
and laughed at their stories of beer, women and cars-
after a while they stopped talking to me.

When I was younger i wanted to be a hippy.
So I dropped a whole bunch of acid, smoked all the weed I could,
I wanted to BE LOVE and love everyone-
but I hated myself too much.

When I was younger I wanted to be a radical.
So I went West with nothing but a backpack,
I marched for Leonard, against war and worshipped Che-
I came home in debt and took a corporate gig.

When I was younger I read Bukowski and Kerouac.
So I had a Buddha and drank myself stupid,
slept with woman I shouldn't have and made worthless friends-
then I found Neruda and understood poetry.

When I was younger I had a baby.
So I remembered everything my uncle ever showed me
about fishing, faith and a firm hand-
but I told him to fuck himself and I make it up as I go along.

When I was younger I wanted Truth.
So I found contradiction and confusion,
I found all the glories of the earth-
there is no end to evolution.

17

Wasting Time
by Michael Finlay

I have been accused of wasting time,
of taking in some too deep.
I have been accused of forgetfulness,
of unloving,
of loving too much-
when accusations fly
it is because one has done too much or too little
and in that sharp derision-there is praise
because we have done what another could not,
and all extremities are worth noting:
films are made, books are written, statues erected-
for all those who live their life with "too"...

there is no celebration for quiet morning moments
at a park picnic table,
so in this pure second I exist without fanfare,
I have no spectacle of ease.
I am solely in this action a celebration.
I am hero to nothing but this pen, the time on my cellphone
this thermos of coffee.
While some would call this a waste,
I have all the lines I will need.

18

Arrows & EYES of the Known Future
by J.D. Nelson

King of Apples is luminous.

+ AUTHOR-I-ZATION
+ blue the Surrealism cat
+ watercolor astronaut

(the movement of Earthlings)

77 EYES in all.

snow,
snow,
snow,
snow,
snow.

the probable chocolate,
the blue chaos.

19

TOADFISH SLIGHTLY
by J.D. Nelson

approximately the program
approximately the size of acid
approximately lozenge kneecap
approximately the repaired tiger
approximately slouch ascending
approximately Virginia already
approximately mammal nut mother
approximately Internet sherbet
approximately dark iron propeller
approximately Omaha Omega

20

Not Quite Something For Nothing, But It is a Lot For Not Much
by Joseph Goosey

A pizza waitress in East Idaho got a
10,000 dollar ($$$) tip for two slices
of veggie and did you know that the
second largest diamond in the world
was found by a couple walking along
the beach and has since been cut
into the shape of a pineapple?

21

Advice From New Haven
by Joseph Goosey

There is a rumbling
in this child's soul
of mine.

I am trapped in between
a rock and
12 or 13 lecturers of craft
and finesse.

Where is there to go but out?

Where is there to go?

As a person who perpetuates existence,
I cast dollar bills into the
sea of contemporary film and
small coffees

What else is there?

2BR/1Bath?

Investment portfolios for up and coming
prescriptions?

Where is there to go but out?

Where is there to go but through the fire
and tube?

I'm told by a man that
apes engage in warfare just
as humans
will

This is true because the man is
from New Haven, Connecticut

and who am I to argue with
New Haven?

So, should I cut my losses and
get out my gun?

evolution,
yes.

22

Dance
by Shelley Nation

Dance, I said, dance
and float along the microscopic images,
fall gently into the waters
of the Arabian Sea just for me.
Dance until blisters unpeel from your heel
And leave blood splatters
For angels to follow
Into your darkness-
Let them swallow your fears
And welcome the light to settle gently
Into the brown of your eyes-
Listen to their whispers.