Issue 6

Andrew Lundwall

Construction 1

thick mobility
strikes the air

--the thickened question streaks--

in dozing red
alert and dozing

reddening a
higher ascension

for plain wheels

Construction 2

nurse skirt backwards
the foggy lake

pantomime oasis
find me there
i trace traverse

travel the target
hands nearer

to grasp

Construction 3

to come to some

next year all ears
to the ground

feeling for a pivot
a different instrument

evaluating each
shudder and shiver

along it the earth

Construction 4

come nearer
to touch my voice

each ending
like a cloud

of smoke
i travel into

most other
instants call

for something else


Issue 5

TRAVELING ALONE: Poems 1981-1998" by Alex Gildzen

Issue 4

Prasenjit Maiti

This year is like
blundering somewhere else
this year happens to be meeting
people people people
who kill me each moment
of our lovemaking
you do not step out
leaving our desolation behind
to stroke my nothingness
even once, reaching out
to our memories that are like us
hanging ever so loose and forlorn
like all those broken tiles
that line the inglenooks
of our sorrows
killing me each moment this year

One day should you be
lonely as you are walking
along winter roads
that are like indecisions

One day should I be alone
reclining like a pillar of shadow
Should I repeat so many blunders?

Should I recall evenings together
that are like nothingness?

Should I laugh and stroke my
merry celibacy? Should you
care like your full lips in bloom?
Like drawing blood on the rocks
like our darkening nights
Should we grow apart like trees?

Should we, but years
should we, but memories?

It was an afternoon
when she walked out of our lives
leaving me to savor our dinner
cold and alone
like a heartless collation

angst and afternoon
i savor our dinner
collation turns cold

stutter and sorrows
pastels like evening
eyes are closed

She used to make love
like quite another woman
and the night air was always cool
and fragrant during our foreplay

She could easily recall
all those heady flowers

the breeze caressed us
sprawled out wet
and spent like money
She was my recklessly
groomed lovemaking
She was like a woman in love
tending flesh, tending memories

Allow me to teach you
an old trick or two
You take your woman
in your arms like eggshells
and you tell her
what sex is all about

She may not be aroused
then you are to fall back
on your memories
and do nothing else

It so happened that
that evening was like your full lips
in bloom
I have written about your lips
and yet cannot recall them anymore
or even the evening
when those lips were so

there is now only your nothingness
that likes to hang around with me
and so we would walk cozily together
in easy camaraderie
into an evening that is so very mindless
of all those holidays spent with you
like prayers in rains
and lovemaking

What about a woman
without trappings?

What about walking along roads
that are no more?

What about my women
whom I do not meet anymore?
You never happen
to miss me anywhere
around your lips

while licking the froth
of quite empty eventides
alone in winter woods

or crying and rising and falling
like we were the waves once
breaking against
the endlessness of passions
in the swell and flood
of our desires perched
like birds and lusty beaks
you never miss me
when in love
or wistfully alone

She was spread like fresco
against the rock as I saw her
I like the way young women smell
my cheeks brushing her tender breasts
our lips were smothered and bleeding
and we were taken in for moments
eyes closed and serene
like everlasting stones
Let us go away
from all our women tonight
women are like wastelands
let us caress the fields of joy
where the haystacks groan
and the memories of our
lovemaking are rife with agony

January 2003

I seek the silences of your thighs, Calcutta, my expanse and my dwindling fury, as I spit on my grave and look back over my shoulders like my hunchbacked worries . . . I steal your lines and lose my job and kill our children and come sooner than your desire . . . The morning tram droops an early, hopeless
return while the winter wraps around our windshield in and out the vanishing green . . . I walk back home in the company of mists and memories of battles and happen to wag my tail and my tongue when I run into my god . . .

Ocean! Ocean!!

You light up a cigarette as I'm swept ashore and walk holding hands with my envy toward the celestial gates of the Bay of Bengal . . . My tongue twitches
in fury like the bitch of a winter all around as the sand and the salt and the tears of the ocean rise like litany in unison . . . You run into me somewhere near the waterfront where the beach lies cobble-stoned and panting in season . . . Your eyes move from green to grey to blue as the waves like mermaids heave their breasts in climax . . . Our eyes water as your cigarette smoke is blue against the blue ocean when my envy and I walk in silent camaraderie toward
no tomorrows


Prasenjit Maiti has been widely published in electronic journals in the UK, USA, Canada, Australia and elsewhere.

His work has been featured in various print and electronic zines, including: 2River View, A Hudson View, Blue Collar Review, Brittle Star, Brobdingnagian Times, Carillon, Circle, Concrete Wolf, Diner, Exile, Famous Reporter, Fire, Gay & Lesbian Review, Going Down Swinging, Green Queen, George Washington Review, Harlequin, Hermes, Homestead Review, and Janus Head


Issue 3

Mikal Trimm

Where The Universe Ends

The stars die
They scream at the speed of light
The children of the father
Big Bang, but they call him Daddy
And the galaxies cry, mothers all, while
The black-hole sheep are shepherded blindly
Into the welcoming pen of the Event Horizon
But the universe stays silent.

Zzzz. . .

closes all the windows
in my head,
pulling my eyelids down
like shutters;
it fills my mind
with smoke
so that my thoughts
can't find
their way out.


Mikal Trimm writes stories and poems and songs. The stories and poems may be found in several publications both on- and offline, including 'Infinity Plus', 'Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine', 'NFG' and 'SAY...'. His songs must be heard in person. He currently lives outside Austin, Texas, due to circumstances beyond his control.

Issue 2

Mark S. Kuhar

byzantine chantmaker of the towering ages

suspended over midamerica
in vast cloudcover airstorms
above long furrows of dirt
sprinkled with the cream of ages
it occurs to me that what i touch
is mere frozen vibration, the lost
byproduct of a dream congealed

& i am a dreamer
& this is the dreaming
& that is a dream
& dreaming can't manifest
without the dreamer
without this dream

a harrowing thunder of hours
the hot things that become me,
the visions that will transpire,
an ogre of restlessness
crowns a dire anxiety,

a breathing that comes
in great heaving huffs
this ocean of breath, the possession
of apt breath the acres of breathing
possible crosscurrents jacked up
like a cracked axle, greased breath,
inflation breath, explode breath

across snowjangled forest floors
a three-legged dog ambles
the snap of frozen twigs
the thick rustle of fallen
leaves crusted with ice
the territory of the lost bird
this map of conciousness
this yellow fog of time

my thoughts predate me
my memories fall into place
my paths grow arms that
point multiple directions
like a thousand-armed shiva

in winter the grass is green
beneath white cotton cloth
snow remnants that arise through
the surface in a fertile growth
over these things i pass like
a byzantine chantmaker of the
towering ages, walking streets
where the walking empowers
the streets, the triangle halo
of my ancient tonal connection
the oasis of my orbit around you

& you walking upon the water
where the walking empowers
the water, your message is a
swarm of love, your tactics
a gift of the somersault cosmos

three trees sprouting from the
earth like pitchfork tines,
either turn the hay in harvest
fields, or plunge it in deep

from where you're standing
look out into rays of radioactivity
through transcendental oceans,
crevices, tall mood arrowheads
righteous reactions, revelations,
the unison of inspired revolutions,

this turning that turns for me
& me only the enfant terrible
of my true regard

time like a mongrel

time like a mongrel barking
its ugly yap through a chain-
link fence, razor teeth
sword-edge fierce, pitbull
with the carcass of lost hours

i live in this containment
this brick-walled fort
of mornings in automobiles,
computers that radiate
a sucking energy, the voices
that inquire about things
that have no literal meaning

a melange of idiot wanderings
the ghosts of pirate souls
intent on death & destruction
in the name of a pile of gold


i recall a joshua tree i met in
the california desert, sun dried,
a thousand years old connected
to the earth & the sky by roots,
the welcome of ultraviolet, he
whispered, the nights i open a
yellow dreaming, i become you
in spindles & creature branches

i saw him alone on the side of the
bridge, a rock in his hand, his
solitary sillouette knifecut
artpiece, intentions not clear
or an expression of vagueness
or a story of disconnectedness
not fit to be told to the sky

but it's the barking i hear, the echo
of the last bark, the anticipation
of the next bark, a reason
for the progression of barks
that meld together into one
long insidious miserable bark

a bark that means hunger unfed
bouncing off the face of the moon,
werewolf clear, incomprehensible,
as long as these footprint trails

baby saint saxophone

my baby a saxophone.
the ramma-jamma
button push jazz ax
toodle-loo, all gleamy
in candlelight & dim
barroom matchflame
like a cat cathedral
she sit on the stage
all holy-rolled, cold
kick her hair back,
she looka looka at
me with that heroin
white edge hover,
fleeting glimpse
that buckles back
to the inside, the
noise go ruckus all
around in a flick fever
like the voice of prophets
my baby saint saxophone
she wait at my table,
she wait for the breath
of christ, create the word
the word that is this
message to the world

whispeRcanyouhear me?

whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?

words like a thick sap
drained from a maple tree
honeycomb thick, sliced
like pork chops, broken
open in chunks, a pile
of concrete and rebar
gnashing teeth.

when i yell
into the bowels of
a canyon the echo
that returns comes
back with bark on
its old fat trunk,
the rattlesnake whippet
of fang inflections,
no longer my voice,
the creation of
terrestrial environment

there is a constant
mosh pit of words
that play in the
background of my
heroic thoughts,
a backdrop of
syllables that
don't congeal,
fluctuate in a
maraca rhythm
shimmy that
sprinkles on
my tongue like
salt & pepper

one day i sat
& stared at a
billboard for
hours, the words
made no literal
sense to me, the
image did not
match up with
the words, the
torn corner of
the sticky paper
a harbinger of
things to come

oh these neanderthal
implements we use
to make hay, to
amp the pulse
of our ticking hours,
why are we so ill-
equipped to make
the jump from
thoughts to words

whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?
whispeRcanyouhear me?

this flagon of twisted
mist that i spill, vapors
for me & you

fugue in limited twilight

i have no recollection
of the sun as it falls,
of the moon as it rises,
of that purgatory of
time passage between
the death of the day
& the birth of the night

i am the pan of yr particulars
a hercules in vibrating
particles, the cosmic zeus
of yr mountain dramas,
apollo at ground zero
with a red guitar

when you approach this
city it is the bridges that
greet you, the transition
between high blocks
of land mass, over rivers
that run in circles like
the canals of atlantis

you must see that this
is our cranial mythology,
the ghost of our peace
& rememberance.

i am here to remind you
of yr immortality. this is
a job you have forsaken,
but do not fear the tempest
of yr fine fettle, the
wasted & rocky docks
of yr incredulous waiting
are prepared for the
cargo of our rapture

when i approach from
the sea i can detect you
up on the widow's walk,
the place of yr long
misery & lone wonders,
i am here to pull down
the walls that surround you,
to open yr mind to the
flaming & opulent
beauty of yr forgotten

this is the kind of
thing that carries
me along against
my wishes, the fear
of water & brambles,
of comets like
baseballs & foghorns
that wail on the
heaving crutch
of the night

take this, here,
it's from me,
i am trying
to strip myself
of everything but
the essentials:
words that have
crusted jewels
of meaning,
the things
the knowledge
you possess
& pure

vestiges of the pomegranate moon

i can be your
in potent moments,
no escape from my
the cloak
of atmospheric
longing, oh cover
the shoulders of yr
my little jewel,
when you come
to seek the
floating stone,
the last vestiges
of a pomegranate
moon, a poem
of granite written
in the lexicon
of our merging,
yr heart beats
like a war drum,
you circle like
a portugese
i'll straddle yr
& translate
yr meanderings
a language we
speak, red seeds
that fall out
one at a time
(ripe beyond


mark s kuhar is an ohio-based writer & poet. his fiction & poetry have appeared in whiskey island, centerlight, the american srbobran, ohio on-line, big bridge, sidereality and the city, as well as in the anthologies an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind: poets on 9/11 (regent press) and the long march of cleveland (green panda press).

he has read his work on national public radio & does spoken word performance in his hometown of
cleveland. his nonfiction has appeared in a wide variety of local & national business, consumer & on-line publications.

he is also the editor of deep cleveland junkmail oracle, a literary e-zine dedicated to the spirit of legendary cleveland outlaw poet & underground publisher d.a levy.

Issue 1

Vaselina Glamatron

Bongwater Venus

I have been a Bongwater Venus. I have used my Welfare Cheque to scrape weed I hadn't paid for yet into a rolling paper I had to borrow. So I know the meaning of Down and Out. I have been a Turntable Isis. I have danced where I knew the DJ could see me and I have excercised my abs before doing so. I have glittered, I have boa-ed, and I have platform shoed. So I know how to Party. I have been a Lavalamp Madonna. I have stayed up all night philosophizing with friends about how we were all gonna make it big one day. And I know the value of a Plan, whether it comes together or not. I have been a Drinkin' Desdemona. I've had Sex on the Beach, Cocaines, Blow Jobs, Orgasms, Fuzzy Navels, and once I tried a Long Sloe Comfortable Screw. See, I know what it's like to Indulge. I have been a Tabledance Diana. I've accepted tips without using my hands I've dangled upsidedown from the brass pole. and I've sold my likeness but not my soul. Because I know the Value of a Dollar. I have been a Crackpipe Astarte I have sucked that glass dick and sucked it hard. I've gone 3 nights without sleep, thrown up in alleys and done things I'm sure I don't recall. So I know what it is to Hit Rock Bottom. I have been an Ashtray Demeter. My voice has been described as "bourbon and cigarettes" but it's 5 years now since I finally butted out. I'll never go back. And now I know the meaning of Willpower. I have been a Nurse Nightingale. I have sat at the bed of a dying friend and held a straw to his lips for water. I have felt the audible exchange of energy between our hands as the Life-Force slowly drained from his body. So I know what it's like to Lose a Friend. I have been a Midwife Medusa. I have been my own Doulah and coached myself alone through the labor pains of delivering the child that died in my womb. I have filled more bowls with blood and blackness than I will ever know. But I've been Brushed by Motherhood and the Spirit of my perfect little flowers will be with me always. I have been a Witch Heloise. I have sat in a circle of women and chanted the names of the Goddess by the light of the Full Moon. I have been healed by Her Prescence. So I know the meaning of Religion AND Oppression. I have been a Virginal Nimue. I have quivered at the touch of a boy and cried my first convulsing tears deep into his neck. I've cried when he said he would call, but didn't. The smell of cotton T-Shirts and muscle cars still takes me there. So I've had to learn the meaning of Restraint. I have been a Bellydancing Bathsheba. I have shaken gold coins on my thighs and my ribs and twirled with my veil like an invisible partner. I have undulated for my own pleasure. Because I know how to Rejoice. I have been an experimental girl. I have been all these things, all these people, all these women. I have flown jet-settingly all over the world, just to share drinks with stranger than the likes of you. Why? Why do I run an hour on the treadmill, when there's no-one to squueze MY rock hard ass? And why do I cruch endlessly, when there's no-one to cum on MY washboard stomach? All for one simple reason: to know what I was capable of. to know if anything really is possible. to know what it means to Live. And I, friends and strangers, tired as I may be, am still amazingly alive. Though bloodied in battle, I smile. Because I've raved and I've vamped and I'm sometimes still rocking. And she who limps is still fucking walking.


Vaselina Glamatron is a poet drawn to paradox and glitches in life which, with an unwatchful eye, seemingly dont make any sense (she is an interpreter). She digs punk rock and poetry, acid jazz and stained glass, and she enjoys a nice trout, when she can get it.


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