2009 August

Ten Fingered Hand

by Joe Weil It was a terrible year when Micheal Jackson was God, and Diana Ross was his mother. Forget getting layed. I worked a factory, grave yard shift, came home at nine in the morning, belched forth by the 58 bus, opened a bottle of Becks just to wash the steel chips from my […]


by Adam Fitzgerald The life we didn’t live. The time tepid as bronze, but honest. The stacked air, the frozen rail, the dripping of blue drops in summer. The honey-trees, the brick façade, the empty canyons of light between a street and the wheeled grocery cart of the sun where a cloud slips his footing. […]


by Liz Rosenberg The summer night is radiantly cool. You’d have liked it. You’d have loved the chili-pepper of the rose, daisies at the zoo, the color of a shell’s curved roseate innards, the orangey scarlet ibis picking his lit way along the wood-chip path and penguins flittering through the pond like bats. “Flying is […]


by Derek Abdekalimi I was supposed to go to the baseball game, but I didn’t I stayed home and ate oranges. The juice dripped down my lips and off my chin, so I washed my face, after I ate five or six. I was supposed to pay my taxes, but I decided not to and […]

Tony, 1994

by Rachel Javellana It didn’t help that he had a port wine stain— a birthmark like a drink that had been thrown in his face—which became the way he was identified when his name wasn’t recognized, or immediately after like a surname, shyly spoken now that he was dead, after being absent less than a […]

Flat Window

by Will Parker Flat Window

Don’t Call Me Chuck (Darwin)

by Tesla Monson Don’t Call Me Chuck (Darwin)