Dr. Randall Rogers

A Not So Fullness of Being



Will never

Stop making


False Gods.


God made it

This way.

And if the current

God ever

Were proven to

Not exist

Humans would


Another one,

And if this

New God

Ever tried to

Show Herself

And walk the earth

Like Jesus


Well, we’d kill

This new God



It’s like they said

In the

Bar down the

Hill from


The day after



Executed: “God sent


Down to

See what

Earth was


And we gave him a taste of what

It’s like to be human.”


Jenny Santellano

I Know Some Things



is not

in vogue,

nor am I


unless I’ve

attempted to

hang myself

with a thread

of humanity



I rather rip

a hole through

the cosmos

with my scorn,

so Pluto will

remember me


And please,

none of that

burning business



what’s wrong

with a little dirt

in your face?

I like organic


“Pile it high,”

I’ll say


That way

my lonely friends

won’t come


for my bones,

and Martians

can still

piss on me


Paul Brookes

Beside Yourself


If you could be beside yourself,

grab the ectoplasmic umbilical

and emerge as a space cadet

on the seat beside you,

appear as a stranger who sits

down, invades your space,


for whom you politely make space,

smile quickly and absorb

yourself in your phone,

a book, a tablet,

and pray the unknown


doesn’t speak to you,

then the realisation,

that all your hesitancy

movement, smile, absorption

has been sharply mirrored


by them and you ask yourself,

are they taking the piss,

are they the one who stabbed

your wife, raped your children,

set fire to your home and sat

on the wall outside to see it burn?


And see a cord between both of you,

and wonder if you touch it,

would it get their unwanted attention.

How could you cut it and have done

with this uncalled-for connection?

And wish you still had the knife.






Wish to be a naked mole rat,

a penis with teeth,


live for 500 years,

hardly age, remain fit

healthy, robust heartbeat,

strong bones, sharp mind

high fertility, don’t feel pain,

elasticky skin makes me cancer-proof.


Wish to be a jellyfish,

sink to ocean floor,

fold in on myself,

regenerate back into a baby.


Paul Brookes

Rabbit’s Head Winter

Midwinter is a teenage lad, on

his haunches – dead rabbit head hill,

in one hand, penknife cold in other,


his breath icy gust

polishes dry skulls into mirrors,

he catches the blade on the bone


scrapes away  fur,

gouges out orbital cavities

back to the bowls,


excavates hollows,

that ooze cherry red blood.





Beatmaster Droopee, real

name Sean, aged 27,

has his own 10, 12 mixing decks,


and headphones.

Says you need an ear


for rhythm.

Loves Gabba.


Single, he has a top ten list

of types of lasses, he wants to fuck.









pigeon toed




Seven ticked so far.

His mate, Micky only has five.

Gives them marks out of ten.

Matt Borczon

Nicaragua 2007

The girl

in Nicaragua

was wearing

blue shorts and

a tee shirt

her face was

made up

like a Geisha

white powder

with thick

red lines

around her eyes

she pushed

a baby carriage

with a doll

in the seat

the people

from her

village said

it took 5

of them to

pry the dead

child from her

hands so they

gave her the doll

to try to

stop her tears

she was not

here for the

medical clinic

we had set up

in the village

she waited in

no line asked

for no help

just walked

among her

people talking

to the ghost

of her dead child

looking for answers

in everyone’s eyes.



The Comfort

that ship

was bigger

than our


back home

but on

this ocean

it was

a camel

in the

eye of

a needle

I never

really knew

how huge

the ocean

was until

one morning

a storm


the ship

so violently

that it

left us

feeling too

sick to

even walk

out to

the helicopter

that took

us into

El Salvador

and the

hospital we

set up there

three of

us puked

out the

back of

the truck

as a

flock of

angry black


dropped from

the sky

biting each

other to

see who

got the



John Grochalski

take a bow


listening to madonna songs

of all things

which means that i’ve run out

of any and everything to do in this world

like last night how i told my wife

that life is boredom and that death didn’t scare me

which is one hell of a lie to tell

to the person you lay down with at night

and i wasn’t even on but one drink

a little too early for the dramatics of a sunday night

i wonder when i’ll stop this cold madness

stop inflicting such hurt

with little words, with little phrases of gloom

and the madonna keeps playing

as i walk past expired cars and grotesque homes

past old, bloated men playing golf

a song from twenty-two years ago comes on

that i remember bellowing through

the house of my ex-girlfriend

the night i came over to collect my shit

while another girl waited for me at a south side bar

such a low rent don juan i was

throwing my clothes, my books

the poetry manuscript that she hadn’t even read

into a big black garbage bag

all the ephemera of twenty-one months of wasted time

thinking how much better than her i’d been

how much better kept together i was in that final moment

as the ex kept pounding up the stairs

to replay the sappy madonna song

crying and crying and crying

as if it were the end of the world

instead of just getting rid of me

and it seems fitting that i should be subject to it now

still the source of someone’s pain

how discontent has followed me like some plague

i think maybe i should skip the little memory trip

shut the music off and listen

to the subway trains and the hustle of fruit stands

but there’s something soothing

in the song

in madonna’s voice

and the memories have given me

such a fine melancholia for this gray morning

not unlike being alone on the gray-green ocean

in the middle of a soft rain

and when madonna tells me to take a bow

i don’t even have to think

but spin and stop outside a closed down laundry

and dip low

almost to the crack concrete

enlightened like buddha

as if kissing the ground to be alive.




where the spirit shines

and my pride blocks out all the light


the cat howls

her death rattle in the morning

for two and a half hours

while i sculpt shitty fictions

and the sun boils outside

like a rotten egg

and now i have these kids

making a huge card for a politician

thanking him for whatever

we thank politicians for these days

and they are drawing

flags and moons and flowers and rockets

and more flags and smiley faces

writing god bless the u.s.a.

all over the thing

while i think about putting the cat down

and killing this novel for the third time

when out of nowhere

she shoves her cell phone in my face

and there is the politician looking back at me

smiling and magical and american

then she asks

her childlike smile as precious as a basket of puppies

why are you so ugly

when he’s so handsome?

and i have an answer for her somewhere

i swear i really do

somewhere deep down in me

where the spirit shines

and my pride blocks out all the light

and i’d say it

if only i could give myself

some cold, hard words

learn to speak the trifling language

of self-preservation

once again.



Ashley Deweese


I’m looking at you, George Sand


Patriarchy sucks.

QuasiFeminism– sucks.

But PANTS suck

the biggest one of all.

The irony of being equal

by dressing in clothes

with designated leg holes

is that now to fuck

I must get at least half-way naked.

The freedom of the bondage

we were told was a skirt

is that it just needs pushed up

over my hips, and I can express

my womanhood

without exposing any more

of my self than my ass.

So for my share of liberation

I will choose to go

pantsless, and fuck panties too-

1) because I hate that stupid word

and 2) ’cause I enjoy the breeze.






I have

a shameful confession:

I watch


porn just so I can feel


at the degradation

of other

women. I’ve yet

to determine

whether it is my anger or

my shame

that is shared

between us that grips

my body and

freezes it

till I rub

the burning out.


More research

is needed.