1.21 Jigowatts

Daniel Romo Today a sixty-something man zooms past my sedan. Last night he came during paid sex faster than his Mustang’s top speed. His plugs look believable; they blow like bewildered bumblebees caught in the fiery hive of the Santa Anas’ swarm. There is no one in the passenger seat. He is smiling as if… More

The Cellini Night

John M. Anderson A laser surgery of first light. The Gorgon’s lavish body twists like streets, Tuscan slate, and the Cellini night holds the trophy gibbous moon in a fisted Olympic salute. Here are the needles and gouts and coaxial cables of patina-green bronze blood down the block from the internet café. John M. Anderson… More

Connective Tissue

Glenn Ashley Paterson Someone whistles in the parking garage and the echo settles in the spaces between rows of parked cars. … In one moment she is the world drowning in rain. In the next, she is nothing more than the candle I am falling asleep by. … The words in my head quiver with… More

Blackberry Winter

J. Delayne Ryms We keep sleeping Under blue down, purpling. Others call, intrusions. Who could want us? Mornings bruise in like Blindness You root behind Me, nudging and nudging. Soon I will creep over the edge To feed my slim hope. My new pills Flutter off the sheets. I net the sluggish butterflies, one By… More


Randall Mann Now that your third shift at the workshop is done, tick the box, let’s begin. You have before you one blood-splattered fur; dry ice and a sewer grate; the epistemology of scorn; and all the stays you can burn. What would Karl Lagerfeld do? Vampirize. Time to start smoking; time for breakfast, Tic… More


Dawn Schout I stay in a hot tub until my heart races, face sweaty, body steaming, chlorine scenting my hair. I’m sandwiched between men, brush arms and feet with them sometimes, then move away because it’s expected, not because it’s what I want, in the shadows, facing away from the porch light. Cool raindrops leave… More


Randall Mann While you slept, I clipped bits of your hair like obits; like letters. A little later, I’ll mail them to your flat, like a threat. Randall Mann is a poet living in San Francisco. His first collection, Complaint in the Garden was awarded the 2003 Kenyon Review Prize in Poetry. He is the… More

Modern Maturity

James Cihlar The appeal of the slightly rancid smell of loose meat and onions, the Pony Burger at Bronco’s Drive In. My attempt to eke out a living in an indifferent locale. There must be a world beyond the world, a door at the intersection of Saddle Creek and Leavenworth that I haven’t tried yet.… More


David Kowalczyk THIS WORD SMELLS OF AGGRESSION. Drunk and blind, it dreams of marrying a princess. Its voice is a desert wind. Its father is Jim Morrison. Its heart is a grassy knoll. Its mother is an inflatable doll. It smiles like a melting shadow. David Kowalczyk is a writer living in Oakfield, New York.… More