In Memory of Michael Pingarron and Paul Gleason Continue reading
This issue is for Flea Market Vendors everywhere & for anyone who has ever been broke. Continue reading
This is an opportunity.
What’s our message?
Too many messages!
A little message won’t hurt…
Let us loiter together
& know one another…
by Harry Partch Continue reading
The inspiration for this Laundromat-themed issue came from David Cope’s poem As the dryers rolled. I had 3 of my own laundromat poems & figured it’d be a good idea for a collection. —David Roskos Continue reading
The poems, titles pages, notes from Peaces, The Result Is Always Circular, and Energy Crisis Poems are reprinted here in their entirety. Original covers and artwork are not reproduced in this volume. Title of this collection suggested by Tom Kryss. Continue reading
Matt is neither a leftist nor a reactionary neither a street poet nor an academic. He is a great American crank, in the best tradition of W.C. Fields, Groucho Marx, Charles Ives, Hugh Selby, Algren…someone truly outside the establishment, including the anti-establishment. Matt Borkowski can not be read in comfort by either the right of the left. He is an ontologist of the dispossessed, the fucked up and broken beyond all class distinctions and political lines. — Joe Weil Continue reading
“It’s after the end of the world. Don’t you know that yet?” — Sun Ra Continue reading
Thanks to the editors of the following magazines and anthologies where several of these items first appeared: Bagozine — Split Whiskey Press | Bathtub Gin — Pathwise Press | Big Hammer — Iniquity Press / Vendetta Books | Come Together: Imagining Peace — Bottom Dog Press | Green Birds Skating — Green Panda Press | Guerilla Poetics Project | Poetry Bay | The Clevelanders — Kirpan Press. Continue reading
“Inclusion is always an option.” Beth Borrus said that.
“I urge you all to make magazines.” I said that. Continue reading
I don’t remember the reason we sat in front of Rite Aid that night. Someone needed a prescription filled. I do remember my mom banging her paims on the steering wheel, Asking, “Why did you ever become a writer?” “I don’t know mom. it was you and dad that bought me a desk for Christmas.” “That’s because your 6th grade teacher told us you had potential to be a professional writer. Not poetry, music and that other stuff.” She was visibly angry at the situation which brought us together. We were picking up pills for her husband Bob I now remember. It was the eve of his disappearance. Entering one hospital after another. Finally – allowed to rest – we surrounded Bob with the Lord’s Prayer. Such remembrance strangely triggered by a Leonard Cohen self-portrait – A drawing of his face – left lobe opened – in which he scrawled:
I never found the girl
I never got rich
– John Lunar Richey Continue reading