Issue ten// Brandon Copeland

On this banal plain

what is that saying?

oh.

darkest before dawn?

and i will keep

holding out my tongue

because each ending

is a different flavor of darkness

no abyss or bliss

just shades of existence,

in the twilight

and the morning repeating

© Brandon Copeland 2011

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Brandon Copeland, 29, is a social justice activist and writer
originally from Kentucky. His website, Nascence, can be visited here.

Issue ten //Derrick A. Paulson

Scribbled Extinct

This morning at the corner coffee shop I overheard the tail

end of a heated conversation in a booth adjacent to mine

between a triceratops and an astronomer. I had assumed

they were discussing their choices in beverages when I first

sat down, had even snickered to myself at the ironic thought

that this armored dinosaur could be drinking a turtle mocha. I

had also quickly stifled a laugh into the crossword section of

my newspaper at the association between “stargazer”

and “Starbucks” (as well as at the coincidence that the

former was the answer to four across). “It doesn’t matter how

cold it is,” the astronomer said, exasperated. “What’s

important is the size of the thing.” “I, for one, am opposed”

snorted the triceratops, “whole textbooks will have to be

overhauled, forthcoming ones recalled, all because of a

minor classification discrepancy.” “Minor?” repeated the

astronomer, “there’re tons of things that would’ve had to be

considered planetary in our galaxy alone, including some

asteroids, if Pluto had stayed a planet.” “Don’t mention

asteroids,” shivered the triceratops. Then, to regain his

composure, he said coolly: “I thought the term ‘dwarf’ was

dysphemistic in contemporary times?” I sipped my cold

coffee, scribbled “extinct” into fifteen across. “It’s completely

fine to call Pluto a dwarf planet,” said the astronomer, “it’s

not going to get offended and start protesting the IAU

committee’s decision—leave it to the misinformed mass to

do that.” His remark was as pointed as his companion’s

horn’s. “Do you imply that I am missing something?” the

triceratops asked as he rubbed the thinning bone of his frill,

unable to check the agitation in his voice. “Your tenure

doesn’t ensure your competence,” replied the astronomer.

Even I could sense there was something akin to an elephant

in the room. I tried to focus on my crossword, to ignore the

silence that followed. The clue for fifteen down: “Cretaceous

ceratopsid” seemed so familiar, yet, for the life of me I

couldn’t place it. When I looked up again the astronomer

was turning a melting ice cube from his emptied glass over

and over in his hand, and the triceratops was gone.

© Derrick A. Paulson 2011

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Derrick A. Paulson (26) is a M.F.A. candidate in creative writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His previous works of poetry and prose have been included in Lovechild, Red Weather, and the Gander Press Review.

Issue nine// Paul Handley

Poetry Loves Genius

___+03=standing water

-------By Homer

© Paul Handley 2010

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Paul Handley has poems included or forthcoming in publications such as Anemone Sidecar, Carcinogenic Poetry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Pemmican and others.

Issue nine// Tom Sheehan

Rimnents (on cudi, but not y)

My grendfethir ren thi coty damp,
barnid clonkirs on e lottli huasi
hi medi uf screp. Un culd noghts dranks
slipt on thet meki-shoft hevin.

Thiy kniw thi wolcumi uf hos fori,
thi mingir’s stuvi tu wrep eruand,
hut carbong tu prup culd fiit,
qaock doffirinci frum thi fruzin eor,

wond-swipt reolrued trecks, beri intry weys,
derkniss whiri huwlong ghusts ebodi
ur, lest risurt, slom cerdbuerd wrep.
Thi lust, lunily bords cemi tu ruust,

fliw on et dask. Hi stukid thi fori
tu stor ap flemis, droid thior fiethers uff.
Jast es uftin hi lift hos lanch ebuat
loki testy sait hengong on thi yerd.

Un Setardeys O bruaght hos lanch,
dinsi lemonetis uf miet end bried,
thock end hievy end cuersi es son,
bruwn benene wi wuald nut iet,

mulessis-bruwn cuffii on whoskiy buttlis
wuand ebuat woth pepir begs.
O nivir sew ivin uni pont buttli
fonoshid uff wothon hos gresp,

rerily sew hos smell bint hend fiilong
onsodi e pepir big. Hos bords
dod thi pockong, hed sait chuoci,
hins donong bifuri thi cuck.

Whin hi doid thiy cemi tu groivi
thi sevouar uf thior noghts,
thi drankin, bisuttid, bruthirid bend
whu su uftin dreonid hos cap,

thi muttli-skonnid, thi suarid uf lofi,
peli hust, thi werrid apun end bietin,
thiy cemi tu cechi thi lottli men
whu uffirid whet wes lift uf Gud.

© Tom Sheehan 2010

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Tom Sheehan’s books are Epic Cures and Brief Cases, Short Spans, Press 53; A Collection of Friends and From the Quickening, Pocol Press. Poetry collections include The Saugus Book; Ah, Devon Unbowed; and This Rare Earth & Other Flights. He served with the 31st Infantry Regiment in Korea in 1951. He has 14 Pushcart nominations, the Georges Simenon Award for fiction, included in the Dzanc Best of the Web Anthology for 2009 and nominated for Best of the Web 2010.

Issue nine// Mike Berger

Dead Poets

Champagne skies crash down;
revealing the realms of dead poets.
All reciting lines; the lyrical blend
is a rancorous chorus.
Sitting at the massive elliptical table,
they indulge in cheese and wine. Each
struggles to be heard above the din.
Humble poets all; reciting their well
crafted lines. Each thinking the others
don't compare. Sitting back you can't
help but smile, impressed by their
profound sense of humility.
Only the bard sits silent, he has nothing
to prove.

© Mike Berger 2010

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Mike Berger PhD is bright, articulate, handsome, and extremely humble.

Issue nine// Victoria Behn

Good Cause Is

© Victoria Behn 2010

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Between bouts of frenzied procrastination, Victoria Behn transfers scraps of her tainted filtrations into shapes that some people claim to understand. She believes that art does not require supporting information. Her chief pleasure involves turning shapes on a page into damp cheeks or gaping mouths.

Issue nine// Thomas Mundt

Sexy Girls of the Hollywood

Come Monday morning, all Freddie could think about was Sexy Girls of the Hollywood, a lingerie boutique on Lawrence. He saw the storefront for the first time over the weekend and it'd been stock car racing around his frontal lobe ever since.

As a matter of strict physics, he was standing on the bathroom's frozen tile, waiting for his never-ending morning piss to subside so that he could rescue a near-incinerated strudel from the toaster oven. But Freddie was really back on that sidewalk in Albany Park, gawking at bad grammar and pastel delicates.

Sexy Girls. Pause. Of the Hollywood. Not ...of Hollywood, or ...from Hollywood. Sexy Girls. Pause. Of the Hollywood.

Freddie knew some FOB's came up with the name. FOB's are funny, he thought. They come so close to getting it right.

***

During his Western Civ class, Freddie flipped through his spiral notebook in search of blank pages. He found he only had one left. Better make this one a keeper, he thought. He withdrew a mechanical pencil from his messenger bag and clicked it until graphite appeared. Then he began to sketch an ink-haired woman in a garter set. She was all legs and he was perfect in his geometry, paying careful attention to detail as he unfurled her latticed nylons down her gams. When it was time to add breasts, Freddie made sure they were proportional.

Not too big, not too small, he thought. Like a real lady would have.

***

At lunch Freddie was a geyser, went on and on about his trip to Albany Park to his buddy Mitch. He sang of lithe coeds parading around Sexy Girls' storefront in miniscule bra and panty sets, of Woodstock-level exhibitionism just a stone's throw from his tía's new three-flat.

I'm talkin' a whole grip of 'em, Freddie beamed. I'm talkin' tits like ka-pow! Asses like goddamn! He told Mitch he was sure they all did sets at the Admiral, probably made a killing off all the dudes coming in from O'Hare. They were that hot.

You gotta check it out, Freddie implored. Like, today.

Mitch snorted, cracked wise about having his secretary clear his schedule.

Shit better be good.

***

On the westbound Lawrence bus, Freddie wondered if it was too late to abort. He didn't want to go inside. I don't have to, if I don't want to, he thought. He could leave. He could pull the cord to stop at Francisco and just book. He could run clear east to Uptown, to his hermana's high-rise. There he could take an elevator to the top floor and jump into Lake Michigan. All of that would be better than going inside.

***

Mitch snapped his Orbit as he watched a liver-spotted man in a Members Only jacket drape a pink feather boa around the neck of a mannequin. The fuck, he winced. I don't see any chicks. He then whipped a half-empty Coke bottle at the window. The twenty-ounce made a dull thud against the plate glass and fell to the sidewalk without spilling its contents. The man inside Sexy Girls cursed Mitch in a language he'd never heard before, a string of consonants played at 45 RPM, before resuming his handiwork.

You fuckin' lied, Mitch leveled at Freddie. He then turned and walked in the direction of The Benches, off to burn a blunt with whomever. Freddie was already next door, pretending to look at VHS tapes in a Korean bookstore's window display.

Fuck you, Polack, he thought. No one put a gun to your head.

***

After saying his prayers, Freddie got up off his knees and locked his bedroom door. He then unbuckled his belt and let his gamey jeans fall to the carpet. He didn't bother to step out of the puddle of denim around his ankles. The notebook was ready, waiting for him on the corner of his desk. He opened it and leafed through page after page of notes about marauding Romans until he got to the sketch. He gave the woman one last once-over, burned her form into his brain. Then he closed his eyes and drew back the taut elastic of his boxers.

She's perfect, he thought. Not too big, not too small.

***

© Thomas Mundt 2010

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Thomas Mundt lives in Chicago. The nice people at Thieves Jargon, Dogzplot, Wigleaf, NANO Fiction and Hobart have published his recent stuff. His whole megillah can be found here.