fall 2015
Table of Contents
Return to Home PageWord on the Street Henry Rappaport
The Day Everyone Realized Ron Riekki
Girl I Girl II Carolyn Supinka
In the Cyberspace Icicle Changming Yuan
The Stale Cold Smell of Morning Angela Rebrec
The Story of Chitin Giri Zoe Dagneault
Can't Stomach Mitchell Grabois
the neighbors knew i divined water Hell is hot Allison DeLauer
Yellow Flowers The World Dream Ann Filemyr
(Ouverture) Garry Thomas Morse
Alcohol Fast-slow Continuum Peycho Kanev
Why, And for What Purpose Is There Something Ace Bogess
QED A Moth In Rain Christopher Patton
what do you talk about desire derives pleasure aren't we missing every thing gary lundy
revenge/reincarnation annie ross
A Monday The Devil Valentina Cano
Saturday Night Charles Springer
A Fire Hydrant on Camino de la Amapola Good to See You Eleanor Kedney
Fault Vodka / Blame Juice Jamie Sharpe
a rose is a rose is a rose manhattan Nikki Reimer
Darkening Over Still Water Richard King Perkins II
The Insidious Susurration A Conversation Marie-Andree Auclair
Brains Lost to the Earth Melissa Nelson
revenge/reincarnation
someone in a very crowded room shouts
‘what a sophisticated design’
while workers stack chairs in positions of lovers
interlocking
one another.
as the stack grows tall,
courtesans appear as acrobats,
when they balance water glasses, or spinning dishes
concentrating, yet
about to fall
entangled birch chairs
with red cloth laps
mute, dutiful characters
taking up so little room
atop one another
their father, not a carpenter
their mother, made them no crochet rabbit runners
but they do fit together
manufactured lack of will,
compliant, in the back of a pick up
truck
and here i am. among
on the highway, thinking of furniture.
they, obedient like sheep,
not a bray, not a yea, from them
as they meditate, accepting their nature
and the nature of man
no need to tie these down
soul’s firefight left them
in the wood chipper
in the glue bath
in the packing line
in the cardboard
box
we sit together, at rush hour
the meek inherited not the earth
but the freeway
a stack of chairs, gravity and consent
failed to fly, when stop and go
stopped and went
maybe thinking for a moment, they were trees,
full of birds, again.
their power, as they fell, out
was in turning three snakes of cars
into one grand metal snake
as they reincarnated themselves
smash
into matchsticks upon the interstate,
now a campground of sorts
where we,
prisoners of our metal or plastic tombs
sit in the sun
along an automobile river
in this place in Oregon
once a forest
glen