Niels Hav When you see a monkey banging a clam against a stone it is like seeing one’s self investigating a philosophical problem. No one can preclude that animals are cleverer than us, they manage life without words, we’re unable to do that. Silence leads us astray in a psychic labyrinth, words flicker through the… More

The Path to Ask

Amy King No punch in the gut. No black then blue. No guessing or “pro” antlers. I look sexy in clothes. Better with someone who knows better. Armed candy tanks, this continent bleeding from the middle umbilical out. Is the horse hooves on camel backs, is the store water stuffed fat. Our floor sweats the… More


Amy King With a cigarette smile, he killed the first crime of outlaw: bake your bread on the side you butter. He ate raw, she felt. Be the one your man can stand behind in a gunfight. Put a bullet in the throat that spews fire for your belly. Such was the lightning of life:… More

Early Duet

Ana Božičević Hi drama. It’s nighttime. I’m at the farmhouse expanded to fit my parents, stepparents, dead grandma, brothers, brother’s girl, my girl, our chi and pom, sperm donor friend. And all around werewolves. That’s pretty good Oh hush. When they attacked I knew what to do: I cut off the thickest branch that held… More

Dixie Queen

Scott Hightower Tennessee Williams knew how to mine the kinetics of cruelty. Not the inverted and demure, “I’ll roll over, and let you ravish me, you he-man man, you!” Forget Stella. No. It’s Stanley, the shrieking infantile god, who’s vicious; who’s had enough of just “whistling Dixie;” who finally succumbs to being topped by Stella’s… More

Of a Feather at Las Codornices

Scott Hightower The architect of our party cuts the pringá, is himself a directory of pasos. On the wall behind him, a mirror features a giddy Bavarian floating in a deafening jar of beer. He smiles in the froth. His chin floats; likewise, his feathered green felt hat. “¡Tome su copa con pajarito!” Like being… More

The Ethics of Ambiguity

Howie Good 1 Sometime during the night someone redrew the town line with a length of string and a piece of chalk. There are footprints that might be clues. A detective in an ancient derby sighs and crouches down. Some of the footprints belong to the green gloom of evening, some to ambiguous silence. 2… More

January, 2003

Linda Nemec Foster Inspired by an art installation created by Chicago artist Cat Chow This is not the beginning of another year, lost circle of an Aztec calendar. Its concentric rings the lines that predict the future. This is not the evolution of a glassmaker’s vision, tempered by searing flames and a man’s breath. One… More

The Anonymous Woman Describes the Roomate

Linda Nemec Foster Inspired by the art of Bruce Erikson I was there once, in that landscape, bedroom a mess and only yourself to blame: childhood memory carelessly dropped on the floor, under the table, looking like a sleeping nude who’s forgotten herself. Why can’t that woman comb her red hair, get up from the… More


Bruce Smith Write like a lover. Write like you’re leaving yourself for another. Write like you’re de Beauvoir, object and subject. Write like you must rescue yourself from yourself, become scrupulous to the body and the rain that floods you with rage and the crude sublimities: there was a lip print on the plastic glass… More