FLYING SAUCER ATTACK: “Beach Red Lullaby” (b/w “Second Hour,” 7. single, Planet, 1995) 

Driving westbound on the Massachusetts Turnpike’s thirty-mile Berkshire run between Exits 3 and 2,

poem in the morning

this farmer's tan is not going to go away
all by itself
but what can i do about it?
go to the beach?
take my shirt off at work?
that would not be very

Greg had always suspected that had Hitler managed to get into art school, he would have become the Thomas Kinkade of his time. Did it follow then that had Thomas Kinkade not found commercial

“They paved paradise / and put up a parking lot / which was a public
  necessity / that boosted the economy / of the city and surrounding towns.”

- - -

Fact: Jim Bogios used to

After a Late Night Outcall (Creepy Enough to Care)

my feet are so warm
I shouldn't have worn
my felt boots
I didn't mean to be drunk
I'm a dull woman
these days
it's just
I

 to the right of my heart a button °
if you see the button press deeply into me

I am shining brilliantly on my way down the stairs

in 1984 I thought everything existed as light

in

Matthew Savoca has placed himself as a poignant voice in the school of transcendental deadpan writing. Penning poetry, and now prose, which prominently feature nature and domesticity as

again andy is crying.
all the days he is crying.

This was a burlesque theater, a two-bit operation that could barely pay off the racketeers and the cops  a place to come into out of the dark, although in the end the dark could snag you by the

An Interview #1

Vibe Magazine: Why haven’t you shot yourself in the head?

Aaliyah: My mother sits in her padded recliner, stares through a row of Law & Order DVDs and thinks, "I

When the governor’s budget cuts hit Eisenhower Middle School, the library’s one of the first targets because who needs books? The staff is halved. I’m cut; Joan’s kept. She has nineteen years in

if I were an Amish girl,
I would leave
for Rumspringa...

For this Non-Reader spotlight, we talk to Kathryn Wakeman about not reading, tv, East of Eden, Eat Pray Love, reading the internet, deadlines, feminism, unlikeable female characters, uncontrollable agreeability. 

Glissade, pas de bourrée. I stole a bottle of Cointreau from mother’s liquor cabinet

In the dream you are not a lamb on fire.

The next morning the phone rings early, five-thirty, definitely not later than six. The birds outside don’t scream that loud after six. The voice on the phone is my niece, the fifteen-year-old,

There’s been a lot of talk about Executives in the news lately, a lot of mystery and confusion. For the last year, I’ve had a side-gig proofreading executive resumes. Now I know all about

Suddenly I want to be the one to leave a party.
Maybe life imitates art after all.

Today
I was at McDonald’s
and there was this chunky,
high school-aged kid...

LAKE ELSINORE WILL HOST THE ONE TRICK PONY

This place was one of those places. Had a minor league baseball team, an Angels affiliate, on some high ground, halfway between Riverside and

I know the scars of my grandfather do you. I know the guns in my pelvis do you...

I'll never forget the sight of those Rockies...

As I write this, nearly a month into the season, my beloved Phillies flounder in third place. Even that dubious standing owes much to their good fortune over the weekend, which saw Detroit sweep

later, an iguana slinked up the steps in a macho, prehistoric way...

HOBART: Maybe I'm seeing a connection where there isn't one and this doesn't apply more to writers than anyone else, but I feel like I've increasingly seen/met writers who run, bike, and are otherwise

You must imagine god as syrupy mist.