Monthly Archives: November 2010


Like a lace-

used to mop

up fires,
a gold


the sun
has begun

to melt,
a look that says,

If anyone
finds a key

to a Volkswagen,

let me know.

HOWIE GOOD is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Lovesick, and 21 print and digital poetry chapbooks, including most recently, Hello, Darkness, available from Deadly Chaps.



There was no heat in winter.  Feasts were potato soup dinners.  Cooking fuel was rare.  Raw potatoes were fare otherwise. “I was always hungry. Not for dinner hungry either.” Pop, an orphan, always starved.  School had heat.  An education too.  Heat’s why mother went. I am their child.  A Baby Boomer.  I got three meals.  Gas furnaces.  TV.  A transistor radio.  The only love they knew.

STEVE PRUSKY is a transplanted Detroiter who now lives, works and writes in Las Vegas. He attended Northern Michigan University in the late sixties. After that he was in the Navy during the Vietnam War. After that he attended the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. His work has recently appeared in Foundling Review, The Legendary, Apparatus Magazine and Flash Fiction Offensive.


DAN CARROLL is the cartoonist behind Stick Figure Hamlet and The Political Machine. If you buy a copy of his book, he promises to eat a gyro while saying, “MMM, THANKS [YOUR NAME]!”


GI Joe’s public service announcements protected us from
thin ice, poisonous weasels and fallen power lines, letting us
know that now we knew, and knowing was half the battle.

But we were left open to subtler foes, possibly also sent
from Cobra, double agents who infiltrated our gatherings
with filibusters on why they’re no longer Orthodox Jews and

the exact extents to which they now disagree with each of
the 613 mitzvot; with parasitic monologues about how they
gave up intercourse entirely after the last divorce, which

itself resulted from their excessive dependence on anal sex,
which if you think about it, boils down merely to muscular
drawstrings and friction, nothing uplifting: now they know;

with predatory conversations about their and our – ours,
too! – but we just met them tonight, and someone’s already
in the bathroom, so we can’t hide out there! – respective

most embarrassing moments involving preteen self-touching
and grandparents; with hostile verbal takeovers, endless hot
wordsprays of fecal-consistency indices cross-referenced

with how long it took to reconcile with their mother after she
made them wear little girls’ crotchless crocheted woolen
pantaloons well into high school, well into sophomore year,

when they learned the trick involving stuffing Q-tips up
a cat in heat: her name was Mitzi, and she strutted around
the house satisfied, to the beat of a white pussy metronome.

This is the grown-up thin ice, Joe, these are the toxic pests
laying the high-current cables in each conversation with
casual acquaintances, people they’ve really don’t know.

Why can’t they save it for someplace more suitable, some
venue akin to their poetry (which, as we both know, no one
would read anyway, besides their close friends at this party?)

And speaking of friends, what do you think of my latest one,
especially the eleventh stanza, the one subtitled “My Recent
Wet Dreams About You and a Panda”? Do all the lines scan?

Born in Flint, MI, raised in the Detroit area, and ripening in California since the fall of 1992, JOHN F. BUCKLEY lives and works in Orange County with his wife, teaching at local colleges and chasing the poetic dragon. His work has been published in a few places, one of which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.

GLAMOUR by yt sumner

Look at this kid, will you, she’s about ten, got this smattering of freckles and even a couple of goddamn dimples. You can tell she’s always being told how cute and how grown up she is for her age. You can tell that she begins to know it so well that she adopts more adult mannerisms because it’s what pleases the grown ups. Look at how she tilts her hip as she carries her plastic bag filled with welfare toys and cigarettes. Look at that look in her eye when the greengrocer pops a grape in her mouth and slides his finger in. You just know she’s going to grow up and say it wasn’t her fault, that she’s simply a product of her childhood and that the neglect or abuse is the real reason she can’t function. You just know one night in the future she’ll kick a boyfriend out of her bed and he will say that she is fucked up, and she will scream you don’t know the half of it as her tits swing and she shoves at him and tells him she hates him while she prays he won’t leave. But for now she’s just this little kid, and everything is before she becomes a product of it and the innocence that we lose as soon as we leave the womb is still faking its glamour around her.

yt sumner likes lowercase titles and writing stories for strangers.


N. GOD SAVAGE lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He mostly writes, sometimes draws, and is always engaged in some minor familial dispute. He also has a blog (