Getting There.

by Eric Sasson

Johannesburg, apparently, has little patience for tourists. The airport bus has been suspended, and the visitors’ bureau informs Roger there’s no pu...

Extraordinary Things.

by Lauren Carter

Corinne was married once. When she lived in Seattle. When she cut her hair so short scars showed up on her scalp like pencil shavings. One afternoon...

Heart of Passage.

by Chris Miller

Prologue The passing of an adult human through an unstrung tennis racquet necessitates temporary dislocation of the shoulders. This step, this shrug...

Last Boots on the Ground.

by Nicole M. Taylor

I remember two things about my mother: when I was seven, she taught me how to swim. The water was cold as her skin. I remember the sun, revealed in ...


Two Poems.

by Aisha Sasha John

Self-Portrait Grade 12 ck one, bus tickets, some mother’s car, frozen orange juice crystals spooned into the slim neck of a vodka bottle, bomb scar ...


by William Haine

There are so many reasons that I am going to hell: I talk with my mouth full of food, organ meats and whiskey-soaked cheeses, forget to say “thank y...

Two Poems.

by Jennifer LoveGrove

Autumn Takes Its Rifle for a Walk The coliseum, agape—miles of silent, stoic rock, a half-frozen bog. The dead end trails swindle their followers of...

An Evening in L.A..

by Michael Sandler

Dinah Shore was hardly a throb; but a gift, two comps to her show, cast frames of reference for the date I recollect with Ruth— an instant crush as ...

Two Poems.

by Katie Jordon

Elopement, 1982 A cabin grafted to the dark. Inside, my parents sleep, gold-banded. Others— sisters, nephews, the mounted marlin— asleep or kept awa...

Archaic Barstool as Hammock.

by Greg Bell

You cannot imagine how wasted I get inside this woman’s thirsty, young body. Let the high, overhanging clouds traffic their troubles, I’ll abstain—l...



“Missing You // Send in the Nouns”: A Review of Jon Paul Fiorentino’s Indexical Elegies.

by Jesse Eckerlin

Jon Paul Fiorentino takes his Post-Prairie fascinations, smart-ass inclinations, and pharmaceutically-impaired hipster stand-ins down a decidedly more somber path in his latest collection of poetry, Indexical Elegies. Here, Fiorentino’s acerbic verse is divided into three thematically diverse sections of roughly equal length. The first, “Elizabeth Conway (A Montreal Suite),” chronicles ennui and disillusionment in the heart of Quebec’s cultural capital, where Fiorentino teaches creative writing and edits Matrix magazine and Snare books. The marked departure from his other collections here is tone. Fiorentino uses not one but two epigraphs from poet and drunk extraordinaire John Berryman to introduce the section, and he takes the proverbial highball from him, spinning world-wearied poetic threads about the anxieties engendered by addiction and existential affliction reminiscent of The Dream Songs. The poems in “Conway” also suggests a nod to Berryman’s alternately parodied or mimicked diction and syntactical play as well as his dense, intertextual …...