Online Exclusives

12.20.11
Greyhounds
When James bites his nails. When James kisses a woman. When James uses drugs.  [...]
12.13.11
From Electric Light Parade
STATISTICS

Age: 3 years

Season: Summer

Neck: Supple

Sensory Exam: No loss

Eyes: Pronounced [...]
12.06.11
A Good Name for an Animal
I love a thief. No particular thief. I love a thief in general. I love a thief the way I love a cup of tea, a winter storm, a house of cards.  [...]
11.29.11
In These Times the Home Is a Tired Place
Only one dream the mother remembered: driving, dead bodies on the road, the word PAPER large and black on a billboard. [...]
11.15.11
Ten Poems
Get in at the who’s-to-tells. With the firsts and a first Pacific mouth.  [...]
11.01.11
The Agnostic Grappler’s Itinerary
An entirely unfamiliar older gentleman drove me across a bare countryside. [...]
10.25.11
Another Girl, Another Planet
Sex in outer space is not that different. [...]
10.18.11
The Hinge Trees
Here is where you were. [...]
10.04.11
Five Poems
One helped undo the rippled look of things beyond the pane. One called for writing on the pane. One seemed to aim at suffocation.  [...]
09.27.11
Nine Poems
Hollereyed the moon tries on gas station, soda machine, locked/ toilet, linedried bedsheets, a caterpillar fording yard dirt. [...]
09.20.11
The Father and the Father
We turned and we turned and as we turned my father became one of the void-eyed horses that never stopped galloping. [...]
09.13.11
From The Victor Poems
So long without women, we’re thinking of women. [...]
09.06.11
One Hundred Characters
Your brother, the first boy you ever kissed. Your sister, the first person your brother ever kissed. Your mother, who has never kissed anyone, to your knowledge, since the age of thirty-seven. [...]
08.30.11
The French Knew How to Wave
“I want a cigarette.” You must say this with a French accent. [...]
07.19.11
Five Poems
ore poured
through ode

and hissed forth
the dread

child shape: O
creation floods  [...]
07.06.11
Et In Acadiana Ego
When Father Desmond excommunicated Mathilde Benoit, denying her the benefit of the sacraments, he wrote an account of his complaint against her. [...]
06.28.11
Two Poems
It makes a difference whether he is rosy-fingered/ or trigger-fingered. [...]
06.21.11
The Commander Is Oppressed His Tongues
The commander visits his collection every day now. [...]
06.14.11
Three Poems
He certainly wasn’t thinking “the emancipation of dissonance,”/ as Schöenberg put it, slouched as he was, rumpled tie and all [...]
06.07.11
Players, Tawkers, Spawts
Listen, I’m not saying you don’t have a movie. Two girls and a guy and the Mars Rover, that’s a movie. Come tomorrow morning, you pitch that right, you won’t be riding this shuttle home empty-handed. [...]
05.31.11
Last Year at Schlangenbad
These trips that begin on airplanes and end on airplanes. [...]
05.25.11
From The Kaleidoscopic Almanac and Seed Catalogue, with Notes
Born to be. Under amplified sermons cliffs erode. All this they wrote out and folded before leaving. [...]
05.18.11
Two Poems
Woke from not sleeping going through the words [...]
05.10.11
An Interview
Memoir, as it happens, is a very popular form in South Africa right now, especially because there’s this sense of unspoken history that’s being reclaimed at the moment. [...]
05.03.11
Eleven Stories
by Osama Alomar
translated by C. J. Collins
The candle was astounded to see the widow as she wept for her recently deceased husband. [...]
04.26.11
Four Poems
Bones wired for strength we are less gullible than a feast but more sturdy. [...]
04.10.11
Crickets
Her hands began to run limping crickets over the wounds of the body before her [...]
04.01.11
Leisure
We are in a haunted house. Our first game is played with dice. [...]
03.25.11
Three Stories
After weeks away, and days on the road, I scan my studio apartment. [...]
03.18.11
Bite
Emily bit her baby. It started with the toes and the feet. The little pink baby feet. [...]
03.04.11
News of the Fall of Troy
(what is important is that history be
silent          (for a moment [...]
02.26.11
Two Poems
Nights when the gates closed, the bullets shot,—
Song. And then a cry deeper. Hung at the wrists of night leaves.  [...]
02.18.11
Cultivation
The process begins with a five-gallon bucket, preferably blue. [...]
02.11.11
Four Poems
He awaits the breaking 
news of the nuclei    flaking outward [...]
02.04.11
North Mozia
In 1997, The Foundation for Life-Prolongation Science calculated the average lifespan of first-generation Adrozians to be 120.3 years of age; many in the second generation are still living. [...]
01.25.11
The Flesh-Murmurers
The trees went away and the poles went away and the stop signs went away and the birds went away [...]
01.18.11
Princess of Desire
I was merely his customer: that’s what she said. [...]
01.11.11
Third Person Singular
I says the speaker, the subject. [...]
01.04.11
Logorrhea
The obstetrician was the first to notice. [...]

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In Print

Vol. 78
Fear Itself
Spring 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

September 28, 2022
When you were the size of a fist, a coyote dragged a three-year-old Angeleno out of the living room by the Peter Pan collar of her pale yellow shirt. She survived but was left with a sizable scar on her cheek. The scar resembled an American flag, pocks for stars and gouges for stripes. Her mother was on the news all the time, which led to the child signing a deal with an agency, and quite soon after that, the child and her scar started appearing on billboards as the new face of a California restaurant chain that sold bratwursts. Last month, for reasons unrelated, the little girl passed away. 
     The querent used to say we come back as either human or animal, that in the spirit world, there is no delineation.
     It’s nice to think the end isn’t the end. 
     Though I wouldn’t dare say that to the dead girl’s mother.
September 21, 2022
What we had done was trample on Johnson’s city, four sheets of paper, loosely placed side by side, with buildings growing in no particular visual perspective, some upwards, some in profile, some in three dimensions but others in blueprint, and this, we felt intuitively, was a triumph of Johnson’s city, or would-be city, it’s resistance to confinement, its ability to transcend.

And we sat with Johnson. We consoled. We patted Johnson on the back and said that we might rebuild it, that it could be rebuilt. That it could be better and that we could help.

We collected the roll of white butcher paper from its mount and unfurled it across the linoleum, gathered the colored pencils, the crayons and scented markers and watercolors and even the Sharpies we’d hidden in our cubbies. We collected scissors and Scotch tape, and began to connect the sheets of paper, for there would be no limit to what we could design.
September 14, 2022
Nocturne

Midnight at the pit of my irrelevance:
     a hair’s breadth away, I step closer to the mouth of it, no more afraid to
shake hands with my lacuna than a bird is of the air
     whistling in its bones. To stay possible as long as possible

had felt like enough now—a persistence of streaks
     in soft butter yellow shed from the clock tower onto the indigo-
freaked slate-to-black vagueness
     that indicates the river. The light lives
 
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