December 6, 2008

elisa gabbert


..................After Chris Tonelli

There’s nothing to be sad about.
My sadness grows restless, nostalgic

for a better bore, the tragic bore
of yesteryear. The stink of the city

grows worse, but at the same rate
that we get used to it. ‘Tis a bore

and nothing more. Even the clouds
are bored, arrange themselves into more

and more exotic vegetables.
Where is the war? I can’t see it.

I feel incredible. What I mean is,
I feel like no one would believe me.


Elisa Gabbert's recent work can be found in Colorado Review, Diagram, Eleven Eleven, Meridian, Pleiades, Typo, Washington Square, and other journals. She is the author of two chapbooks from Kitchen Press, Thanks for Sending the Engine (2007) and My Fear of X (forthcoming). She is also co-author, with Kathleen Rooney, of Something Really Wonderful (dancing girl press, 2007) and That Tiny Insane Voluptuousness (Otoliths, 2008).
The poem originally appear in COMBATIVES, the print offshoot of H_NGM-N.

elisabeth workman



Pour $100,000 champagne plus a kilo
of honey over the city of Reykjavík.

Call it a yacht, a leak, a cataract of
angel juice gushing and still famished.

We were left in the scarcity terminal
with an aura strictly American.

A real killjoy depleted of Billy the Kid
reduced to cynical art timers of hunger.

Strike thousands of years of living together
you say it was like pouring everything out

in the way that rocks are documentary
Los Angeles oozing quasi-imaginary

epochs of icy blankness blinking
into being the ancestral city rim.

Beauty brain freeze the proper noun
walking barefoot over diamonds

the world rolling in ecstasy at its feet.


Elisabeth Workman's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in fourW, Absent, Alice Blue Review, and West Wind Review, among others. Her chapbooks include _a city_a cloud_ (Dusie 2006) and _Opolis_ (Dusie 2007). She works for a visual art museum in Minneapolis.

December 5, 2008

lara glenum



Beware the Normopath............. knocking honey
into your facegrill

will crush your teeth into smiling

Give the Normopath a flabjob
watch his boomstick blow & break
open your eye


I’m flexing my eye-pods
& feeling nasty
...........................I milk
...........................the Normopath
............& lube out into a sea of congealed pig organs

..............The woods laugh out a skin

My eye-pods break open &
A hundred other eyes
roll out

I’m filing down my hooves

I’m waiting for Mino
with a thousand open legs


Lara Glenum is the author of The Hounds of No (Action Books, 2005) and the about-to-be-released Maximum Gaga (Action Books), from which the above poems are taken. She is also the co-editor of Gurlesque, an anthology of contemporary women's poetry and visual art, with Arielle Greenberg (Saturnalia Books, 2009). She lives in Athens, GA.

December 4, 2008

evie shockley


a sonnet for stanley tookie williams (12/29/1953 -12/13/2005)

won’t you help to sing these songs of freedom?
‘cause all i ever have: redemption songs.
--bob marley

all month this country has careened toward cold
and winter’s celebrations: what a star
announced—a birth—and then a chance to fold
a year away, pull one fresh from the drawer,

if not clean, well, unworn. in just a few
months arrives the ice-hot day of the dead-
come-back-to-life—time then to ask how new
and re- beginnings differ. mary bled

for the december miracle, as some-
one must. did you imagine sacrifice
as you called the crips to life? did they come,
those youngbloods, at the crackling of your voice,

like lazarus to christ? vigilant night.
on the road to san quentin, candlelight.

December 19, 2005

this poem first appeared in, the southern review.

to see the minus

the ghost. the thing we could touch if its throbbing
absence were any more vast, any more like a molecule

of jupiter, all mass, weighing us down, but nothing
we can put a finger on. we squint to see the minus: water
take away holy, take away book, take away tree, take away

phantom limb, a connection our brains keep trying to make
with the dead and gone. minus family, minus portrait,

minus heirloom, minus hand-me-down, minus hand.
subtract the noise in the streets. subtract the streets. minus

keepsake, minus god’s sake, minus evidence of things unseen:
the ghost. the thing we could touch if our throbbing

phantom limb really connected. our brains keep trying to make
sense of it. the life’s work, the first or second generation’s
at last accumulated wealth, gone with the wind, washed clean

away in polluted water. if ever there were ample space
for faith and despair, it is here. room enough to tackle a vision.

this poem first appeared in, PMS: poemmemoirstory


Evie Shockley is the author of a half-red sea (2006) and two chapbooks, 31 words * prose poems (2007) and The Gorgon Goddess (2001). In 2007, she guest edited ~QUEST~, a special issue of MiPoesias featuring the work of contemporary African American poets. Currently a guest editor of jubilat, she teaches at Rutgers University, New Brunswick.

December 3, 2008

hoa nguyen



...........Stupid in-box
Time...............a shimmery
autumn backdrop

Long precise shadows.....I clutch
a powder-blue pillbox purse

and brooding eyebrows

and stepping on the undead
the suburb-surviving zombies

I spear the bloody head onto the fence post

..........The Flood Next Time


Growing a heart ............another heart
A deep cavity in the shape of an X

The eyes are hollow or covered

...........Good fix ........God ............Bad boy

Percale sheets and cooking spray

What isn’t an historic moment
crossing it out




..........The will to live/die

is not incompatible


Hoa Nguyen lives in Austin TX with the poet Dale Smith and their two sons. Together they edit the book imprint Skanky Possum and curate a reading series. Forthcoming books by Hoa include "Kiss A Bomb Tattoo" (effing) and "Hecate Lochia" (Hot Whiskey). She is an Aquarius and a Fire Horse.

December 2, 2008

stephanie strickland



without knowledge to obtain the effects of knowledge
...............carpenter bee
...............cervical ganglia

heaped up wave hanging in the air for centuries
...............key conservation
...............(not a hair lost)

effected inside glial cells not volumes what is
...............storied volumes or in acid-free bits is

on (the) line constantly conversing with the blowing sheet
...............the bee


Stephanie Strickland’s fifth book of poems, Zone : Zero, just published by Ahsahta, includes two interactive poems on CD. She co-edited Electronic Literature Collection/1 and a recent issue of the Iowa Review Web. She has taught experimental poetry and hypermedia literature at many colleges and universities, most recently the University of Utah.

"Huracan’s Harp 121,” was first published in A Sing Economy, Flim Forum Press, 2008.

December 1, 2008

elizabeth treadwell

3 from "Virginia or the
mud-flap girl"



suspect & friend
the missing guard, the holy nightblock
these smally cells, fair linguist
as extreme as a worn & fractured bank-note
the folks who'd been attending their lives arrived late
in soiled dresses
the daffy windbreak, the goody bell-hop,
this flophouse ale

P. vivax

a little god comes in & protests
will as extensity holler
in all your original flapping sins,
your 17th century arcade
beating down staunchest river
some summer slag-heap
in theory butler
bitten, plow
some jailed hintback
in the doctorlight

Doily Construct School of Itself

crown head refracture
in filth up to its teeth
the haughty unhinged
this armored petty
implies the fractious
vanilla half-shot
(just another puckered asshole
caught fingering the moon)
in our task-mask, crown-girls
buried in logic, grasping at straws
all the pickled magic of the spheres


Elizabeth Treadwell is a proud member of the Irish, English, & Cherokee diasporas. She lives with her family in northern California. These are parts of her long poem, " Virginia or the mud-flap girl," which was inspired in part by Jimmie Durham's sculpture "Pocahontas' underwear." Her books include Chantry, Cornstarch Figurine, Birds &Fancies, and Wardolly.

November 30, 2008

kirsten kaschock



In artistry and largess, rearrange them.
In anger, they are to be arranged, re-
arranged, then done again. They are angels—
rearrange them. They are disastrous. They will
resist. Yet, do not cease. Glacial
in their garments, regal in glades and groves,

in dense grasses—distressful—
as they, in-inebriate, sling back sober growlers
of lager, or indifferently wrangle geraniums
into itty pots, better at to tend
and to protect than obstetric nurses
are, or prostitutes heeled precariously above

loved window boxes—rearrange them.
Their glands and ovaries. Make their knotless
hearts bear the pendulous weight of
bowels. Make them start
to resemble humanity. Deform them
with anatomy. Given the difficulty of insides,

they would not be so aether. Flawlessness
is mere, a porcelain mug in which such
unbearabilities steep: terrible
symmetry and so forth. It is time
they were not right. It is time they were
treated to the vast interior they lack.

Next to the sofa—sit the wingback, float
the ottoman in front of puddled drapes.
Curl up inside an angel: be
the fetus. In this way, they
could be made to matter. Off heads
of pins, not new age schtick, no longer

beads on philosophical abaci, nor tendrils
withering in the schizophrenic mind
—but bodied. So they may truly be
ours and us theirs, we'd say. All the while
we'd know—bothered not—the translation
into mother to be exaltation. Murder also.


Kirsten Kaschock is the author of _Unfathoms_ (Slope Editions 2004) and _a beautiful name/for a girl_ (upcoming from Ahsahta Press). She is a PhD student in dance at Temple University in Philadelphia where she lives with her three sons and their father.