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Two Poems
by Douglas Cole The Street of Lost StepsJim Carroll hits the west coast, his visions and dreams fueled by getting off junk. He’s on the methadone plan. He writes of successfully becoming an “anti-social hermit.” This is nearly fifty years before Patti Smith arrives in Year of the Monkey. Same coast. Her dreams come from…
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Object Permanence
by Amanda Pendley Artist: Augusto Avila Jr. it was poetic justice maybewhen two days earlier, the three of us stoodsquished and stepping on feetin front of the dull dorm bathroom mirrorfor a friend’s photography projectwe were told to act natural as wepretended to examine our skin for blackheadsand check our teeth for spinachand reach behind…
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Punting Everything We Don’t Have The Guts To Say Into The Sky
by Amanda Pendley Artist: Merri Cherry little kids blush when confronted with crushesthough it may be the purest form of loveany of us will ever haveI’m stumbling upon more and more days latelywhen I wish I could go back to thatwe always teased zach about shannonand you teased me about zach and hissoccer trained legs…
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Rage
by Kate St. Germain I took any advice I could get for six months after Lila died. I meditated, I socialized. I focused on the present; I planned for the future. I was counseled, I was massaged by reiki masters and prophesized by shamans and priests. I went vegan and munched on leafy greens. I…
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My Parents Have Always Fought
by Sage Leona Artist: Sohei Szincza My parents have always fought. Mentally, verbally, physically. All of my memories of my entire first fifteen years of life are entwined with horror stories of their annoyances which turned into disagreements always becoming an argument and usually escalating into a fight.The fights never seemed to end, they lasted…
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Raspberries
by Jordan Williams To grow down first, then upin a fruit filled half acremeans a bittersweet bloodline pucker-tart memoriesthat sour pop in rear mouthas though unripened grapes small, unimpressive green globesraised on trellised vinespropped up right down the center of our backyardlike a vein we ran aroundduring kickball and the landlord, Judy with her obsessive…
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Old Umbrellas for the New Blood Rain
by Brett Stout The metallic neon bloodladen Americanconcrete andgrass, Ohio is now singed, safety pinnedaccessories and mementosof futurepresentand past enthusiastic wars, black tie dinnersandcheap gas masksmelt protests ofpeaceor annihilationborn soloon gargantuanwaves of a spring unrest andseverelydefaulted apathy, a coagulationofeuphoric andembittered state lotteriesand national drafts, hands to faceandface to facea reduction oftear gas laden emotionsandcentrally stationed…
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From Being Stalingrad to Nothingness
by Brett Stout After she annexed her existenceandthe Crimea, confessions as oxymoron’swere writtenin dead languages onblank Post-It Notesleft in empty carriagesas thebroken dams filled withneon ghetto trashcansand urban rodent predators weresprayingdesigner cologne onme and inthe pages ofmonthly corporate familymagazines, celebrate the revolutionwith blood soaked handsand pinwheelsof death and mass genocide, yellow ochreprimary redblackandlime greenpaint strokes…
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Art by Jim George
Jim George Jim George is a writer-artist-songwriter-musician from Reading, PA. His fiction, poems and artwork have appeared in Otoliths, The MOON, The Sea Letter, The Ear, Lotus-eater, Defenestration, What Are Birds, ANON, Hock Spit Slurp, Queen Mob’s Tea House, and The Five-Two, among others; his nonfiction has been published in Playboy, Cinema Retro, and Best…
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A New Note From Underground
by Cliff Saunders The less you can understand, the more it hurts. — Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground & Can’t stand sickly streets full of holes. Can’t find a loop of grace in the Holy City. The children are silent, and blue with cold.The revolution is devouring their road, endless as a month…