John Maurer

Blood, Blood, and Tears

No one has even noticed my brain is outside of my skull
Sitting in my hand dripping out its serotonin and dopamine
The reuptake isn’t great when I’m spilling it out
Like my heart fell off my sleeve and onto the page

I’m still saying what they tell me not to
I have too much free agency for an agent in my early twenties
I say fuck because I’m fucking fucked
If I tell them to fuck off, they fuck on
Even if I don’t give a fuck, they will take a fuck
Like my poetry is a cheap whore, only meant for one night stand

They want to tell me where to put my line breaks
And for that, they will take…hmmm…nine eighths
Plenty more if they can and more if I’m desperate,
and I’m plenty desperate
I would take minimum wage for a page, but who would pay
To see auto-autopsy
To see half of a heart transplant
To see me write poetry until I have a nosebleed

Anthony Dirk Ray


Kenny opened his eyes slowly, but the minuscule amount of sunlight coming in from the inch of open curtains was enough to make him squeeze them back shut again. His head ached and his stomach was twisted with pain. The thirst that he felt was immeasurable. Kenny pulled himself from the comfort of the plush hotel bed and staggered to the sink for handfuls of tap water. As he sucked down copious amounts of liquid, he attempted to put the pieces of the previous night together. 

Kenny was the singer of an up-and-coming band known as Winter’s Dread. He remembered opening the show for the well known regional act Gloomy Forebodings, then drinking, doing blow with the headliners, and meeting some girls after the show. Kenny’s band played music on the extremely heavy side, so the majority of attendees were usually young and sweaty guys looking to fight. It shocked him that a fair amount of attractive girls were at the show. 

He found a towel on the tile floor and picked it up to wipe his mouth and face. The room was mostly dark, but obvious that it was littered with empty beer and liquor bottles. Kenny made his way back toward the bed. He just needed a few more hours of sleep before the band or their road manager would be knocking on his door. As he went to lay back down, he was able to make out a figure on the opposite side of the bed.

Kenny then had a memory of a sexy blonde in a cut off black t-shirt and short jean shorts that came on to him pretty hard. She was with the group of girls backstage, and this one had taken a liking to him. A faint recollection of the two of them snorting heroin off a guitar case entered his brain. Then he recalled getting head from her while others were in the room. He wished he could put more of the night together, but it all melded into a fuzzy blur. 

Kenny crawled into the bed to snuggle up to the mystery girl. He wanted to make some memories that couldn’t be forgotten. But as soon as his naked skin touched hers, he felt the cold, clamminess of death. Kenny instantly released the tit of the corpse, recoiled away, and sat up on the bed. He switched on the side lamp and slowly turned to verify: The once living, breathing, sexy blonde, was now wide-eyed, stiff, and lifeless, with dried vomit down the side of her face. 

Kenny frantically began to switch on every light in the room. He knocked over bottles in his haste, which heightened his anxiety further. The room had to be cleared of any illegal activity before he could do anything else. He flushed every baggie that he found, empty or otherwise, and continued his search. 

Kenny found the purse of the dead girl and looked inside. He removed her wallet to search for an I.D. A driver’s license was visible through a clear portion of the wallet. Jessica Stevens was her name, and she was only…16 years old! Kenny’s heart dropped, his breath quickened, and a feeling of despair overtook him.

Kenny thought, not only is this girl dead, but she’s underage, and she died from drugs that I gave her. He fell to his knees and broke down. Kenny knew that there was no way out of this. Thoughts of gloom, sadness, and regret overwhelmed his being. 

The eyes of the cadaver seemed to follow Kenny everywhere in the room. He covered her head with the sheet, sat on the bed, and put his face in his hands. Kenny knew that he had to call the police and give this girl the respect that she deserved. He was terrified, but knew of no other option than to face the dismal consequences. 

Kenny picked up the phone with trembling hands, but before he could dial, there was a loud pounding on the door. 

“Police. Open the door,” a gruff voice shouted from the other side. 

Before Kenny could do anything, the door exploded open, and large monkey-like beasts charged in at him. The largest creature opened its mouth to reveal a pair of large, jutting fangs. Just before they entered Kenny’s skull, he awoke in a panic. 

Kenny shot up in the bed, switched on the side lamp, and looked around frantically. He was in the same hotel room, but there weren’t bottles everywhere, and best of all, there wasn’t a dead girl beside him. In fact, there was no one there but him.

Kenny sighed deeply and let out a slight chuckle.  It was just a dream, he thought, as he laid back on the comfy, down pillows. 

However, the relief he felt didn’t last long. The entire hotel began shaking violently. He had been in a few earthquakes in the past, but never over twenty stories in the air. He was about to flee his room and find the stairwell when the shaking intensified. Rumblings, deafening crashes, and sounds of devastation flooded his ears. Screams of terrified and dying people could be heard all around. The hotel started to crumble and break apart. Massive chunks of falling debri rained down on him, and the floor began to give way from under his feet. 

Kenny was awakened by the shaking of his bunk. It was lights out, and his cellmate, Big Chocolate, was ready for another piece of ass.

Vadius Wilburn

Sanctuary Golf Course

The sky was red.

“Honestly it’s fucking crazy,” she said.

“It’s because California’s on fire,” he said.

“Nah that’s fucking, way too far for us to see it.”

“It’s like bright fucking red.”

“I think it’s Utah or something.”

“What even is Utah.”

“Haha yeah. Nevada.”

“That’s way too far. It’s literally red, like right fucking there,” he said.


They stood, looking at it.

“I guess like our own shit must be on fire—”

“Yeah like our own shit must be on fire then,” she said.



“Who gives a fuck honestly.”

“Honestly who fucking cares. Honestly.”

They were in the middle of the fairway. The sky at one horizon was indeed a searing red. The summer green of the fairway contrasted. 

They were essentially on top of a mountain, and the grass of the eighteen fairways was stamped there for their recreation. The groomed grass fell about the crest of the mountain and down its sides. It was like at any moment there was a vantage by which they could spy the rest of the world, or its apparent annihilation, or whatever was occurring with that red of the horizon.

She now had to hit the ball in the direction of the green. Tim’s dad and Tim’s dad’s friend were waiting there, at the green. She hit the ball. When she was done following her shot she turned to him and said, “Tim,” and he said, “What?”

She said, “I look like such a rich-ass hoe right now.” She spun around and lifted her skirt so Tim could see her ass. “I love it we should golf more often,” she said.

“Babe. Notwithstanding how ungodly fucking sexy you look in that outfit—”

“Look at my fucking legs like holy shit babe. With the color of the sky.”

“Yeah notwithstanding any of that, golf is pretty wack—”

“Can you just like briefly comment on how fucking amazing my legs look right now—”

“I mean babe I’ve literally had, like at least half a boner for the past half hour.”

“You can fuck me you know. Right now I mean.” 

She stood there, leaning on the golf club.

Tim looked downtrodden.

She said, “It’s just your dad. Your dad is super wack.”

“So wack.”

“Let’s go join them?”

“Let’s,” he said as she got in the cart and he drove through the fairway to where his father and his dad’s friend were standing. He parked adjacent to the green and he and Sara grabbed their putters.

His dad said, smoking a cigar, “This is just absolutely wild with the sky isn’t it.” His dad exhaled the cigar as it was part of his persona.

“Wild, yeah.”

“Crazy yeah.”

His dad’s friend was standing there, aesthetically equivalent to a filing cabinet.

Tim’s father said: “Well we’ll definitely have to get a photo before the day is done. Several photos. I mean just look at the sky. Have you ever seen anything like that? Roger have you ever seen anything like that.”

“Yes once.”

“But I mean, like that?”

“It’s impressive. I admit that is impressive,” Roger said.

The four of them stood there on the green, staring at the sky. 

Sara said, “It honestly looks like the world is ending.”

“Who gives a fuck,” said Tim.

“What was that? Hey don’t say that. Don’t say that Tim,” his dad said.

In one minute Sara said, “So whose turn is it?”

“You can putt. You’re inspecting your line. I see you. You got it,” said Tim’s dad. And then he said, “Great putt,” after her stroke.

Tim navigated the scenario and finished his putt rather quick.

They reconvened at the tee box of the following hole. Roger manipulated the velcro of his gloves and looked down the line of his club. He pressed his cleats into the grass at the tee box and then lifted one foot and then the other, testing the ground. Then he did so again. With the ball teed up, Roger drew back his club a few inches and then reset it, and then did it again. He hit the ball. Then Tim’s dad got up to the tee box and did the same routine.

Tim got in position to swing and said, “You guys can go on ahead. I’m probably going to mulligan a few times here. You know.”

“That’s cool Tim. We can wait,” his dad said. “That’s fine whatever you have to do.” He exhaled his cigar.

“No honestly just go ahead. Gonna try something new here.”

“It’s okay if you have to take a few practice balls,” his dad said.

“Just go ahead hahaha.”

“Well that’s fine that’s not usually—”

“Really if you don’t mind I have to say something private to Sara.”

“Tim,” his dad said, “yeah we can play, sure. Roger you don’t mind? We can go out there on the fairway.”

They drove down the cart path, dissolving into the grand view of the valley.

He and Sara were alone at the tee box. He teed up a shot and took some practice swings.

She said, “So what did you have to tell me?”

“Literally nothing haha.”


“He’s just so fucking lame,” Tim said.

“So fucking lame.”

“Honestly.” He looked at her. “My dad wants to fuck you.”

“Duh. Hahahahaha. What a fucking gremlin.”

“And the fucking Roger guy.”

“Who the fuck is he.”

“One of my dad’s friends from AA. Literally my dad only has sober AA chode friends.”

“What does Roger do?”

“Sells airplane parts.” Tim took a few practice swings.

“That’s so fucking lame hahahahaha. What a fucking loser,” Sara said.

Tim hit the ball. It curved into the trees, where it might have just rolled down the mountain. He fished from his pocket another tee and another ball. He regarded his surroundings, seeming to finally take it all in. He said, “Holy fuck.” She stared at him. He looked at her and said, “Dude this is a fucking insane view,” and she laughed. He hit a ball which went into the trees. He said something absurd and grabbed another ball and hit it into the trees.

She said, “Why don’t you actually try?”

He said, “Baby I am I’m just fucking hammered hahahahahaha.”

He hit another ball.

“Baby,” she said.




“Why don’t you just fuck me in the trees. Just hit one into the trees and play it and we can go over there and you can fuck me,” she said.

He looked at her. “Yes. The trees. Let’s go fuck in the trees.” He hit the ball and it landed in the middle of the fairway. Then he took another ball and hit it into the trees.

She had to hit a ball now.

“Just hit the fucking ball,” he said to her, “hahahahaha. Just fucking hit it.”

They got in the cart and he drove down the cart path. He drove them into the trees where lay his seventh ball. He said, “We’re doing this come over here.” From where they were standing they could actually see the outlines of his father and Roger down along the fairway. They were playing their balls.

“I’m shivering oh my god,” she said, “in the shade I mean.”

From behind—he grabbed her at the waist and put her up against a tree so that there was a tree between them and the rest of the course.

He grabbed an ass cheek and pushed her panties to the side and said, “Just take them off,” and she said, “Yeah I’m just gonna take them off,” and she slid them down her legs and threw them in the cart. He slipped his fingers into her pussy and he untucked his shirt and stuck his cock inside her. He put his elbow around her throat, from the back. “It would be dope if you screamed right now,” he said. He fucked her and she lifted up her shirt and felt her own tits. “Tim,” she said, with her hand in his hair.

They were celestial with the red.

“Should I put them back on?” she said.

“No fuck that.”

From the trees he hit the ball into the fairway. They drove to it and she sat in the passenger seat of the cart.

“Your dad. What a fucking loser,” she said. Tim was crying and laughing, trying to hit the ball. He said, “This is really serious, we need to be serious for a second. Just for a second while I hit this fucking ball.”

He hit the ball.

Back in the cart he said, “Alright Sara. Where’s your ball? Where’d you lie?”

“I don’t know. Over there.”

He drove in the indicated direction.

The distant sky was blackened intermittently by blurring smoke. It was clear that the environment was on fire.

Roger and Tim’s father were chatting at the green. When Tim and Sara arrived, Tim’s dad said that they should take a photo. “What do you think Sara? You guys look really good.”

“Great idea. Definitely need some photos.”

Tim put his arm around her and their background was the apocalyptic sky. It was like the universe was cut into two plains. There was the edenic, lush, green world, and there was the ethereal celeste of dissipating red. This is what Tim’s dad saw as he took photos. Even Roger made a comment.

Tim’s dad said, “You guys look really good,” and Tim said, “You know I fuck her right? I literally just fucked her in the trees,” and Sara literally laughed. Tim’s dad said, “Hey Tim, that’s not what you want to say right.”

“Honestly fuck you.”

“You better watch what the fuck you say to me,” his father said. “You better watch what you fucking say to me.”

“Why? So you can maintain your stupid fucking identity of being this fucking cool corporate fucking douche bag that walks all fucking indolently on the golf course—”

“Tim I don’t know what the fuck is your problem right now but I want you to know that I do not approve of the choices that you are making in your life right now. I do not approve. You tattoo your fucking hands. And you’re clearly drunk—”

“Like it fucking—”

“Fucking listen to me right now Tim. You come out here and embarrass me in front of Roger. I entertain you and Sara all day. I come up with a plan so that maybe I can relate to you and we can have an enjoyable afternoon and understand each other and maybe you can have something purposeful in your life. And I do not—I repeat—do not approve of the choices that you’re making with your life. I’m your father, and I’m disappointed in you—”

“Do you realize—”

“Tim you better pick your words very carefully right now—”

“Yo literally fuck you. I come out here and ‘embarrass you in front of Roger,’ who gives a fuck. Fuck Roger. Roger fuck you. Either of you is just a complete fucking joke just a complete hollow fucking identity—”


“Literally fuck you. You’re a fucking joke all you do is spew your fucking toxicity upon anyone who even approximates a fucking mile within your radius. Why don’t you fucking drink you’re a fucking pussy you literally pretend to have this identity like you’re this wise old fucking man that lived a life and had all these experiences and then decided to do the right thing or whatever the fuck and you’re sober but don’t you get that you’ve just fucking put all that shit inside yourself you’re a miserable old fucking piece of shit you’re a fucking pussy you drink black coffee and smoke cigars because you still need to hide everything inside that you’re running from you’re a fucking monster, you know I still have fucking dreams about you I’m a grown fucking man I still have dreams about you where I’m crying and you’re fucking laughing at me. Your life’s a fucking joke and you too Roger you’re a fucking pussy you both sold out your fucking lives and bought into some bullshit fucking value system asserting that you can’t make your own fucking choices and you’re just the victim of a fucking disease, why don’t you fucking drink you fucking pussies. You fucking losers. And dude you tell me you’re disappointed in me? Do you realize how fucking little I give a shit about what the fuck you think about me. I literally don’t even give a fuck. I literally fucking hate you. You’re a fucking pussy you embrace this fucking bullshit corporate identity and do the whole golf thing and buy into a fucking image and you smoke your fucking cigar and you fucking actually literally fucking believe in all the AA fucking bullshit like it’s the core of your fucking identity your utter futility before fate or whatever the fuck your victimhood before the fucking disease the fucking world like you don’t have any choice and you just embrace the fucking lies so you don’t actually have to take any fucking responsibility, that’s what it is you take no fucking responsibility you fucking outsource your own fucking identity to some external cause that isn’t in your control so you think you’re destined to just be this fucking worthless loser that’s just uptight all the fucking time and only achieves like ten percent of what they fantasize about. And dude you just make everyone fucking miserable, except Roger who’s a fucking loser anyway, worshipping you, your group of orbiting fucking AA buddies. Like it’s become your fucking identity, weakness your identity, victim your identity, impotence your fucking identity, misery, no-fun your identity…”

This was happening and she acknowledged it. Roger was walking distantly, lighting a cigar. She asked him if he wanted a photo of just him in front of the sky. He scowled at her and she peered expectantly until he said explicitly, “No I don’t want a photo.”

She didn’t actually know what she was supposed to do in this situation. She was standing on the edge of the green and looking at the grass which was effulgent with the red of the sky. But the color of the grass reflecting its inverse in the sky formulated something inexplicable. And the anger which arose fulminant, apparently, yet not unpredictably; typifying for her effectively the whole world. She didn’t know what to think about it. She hated his dad. She thought maybe that they should stop getting drunk with weirdos like this. If Tim was just here yelling and being a psychopath—how could she disapprove. She literally hated the world. Literally fucking hate it, she thought. I fucking hate it, she affirmed. So what the fuck am I supposed to say. She felt anyway that maybe there was a better way for things to go. If Tim wasn’t so recalcitrant then maybe there’d be less anger and hatred. It was almost like it was unethical or something, everything that was occurring. It’s not like I have a strict set of ethical values, to compare it to, she thought. Tim’s dad was screaming terrible terrible things, presently. She could see within the man despair and failure and figured that Tim was in a way just psychologically enslaving the dude and was probably a source of constant torment. And she thought, I don’t fucking care. She thought: this is what I’m supposed to do in this godforsaken society of violence, I’m supposed to yield to moments like these and recreate them and sponsor them. It makes no sense to me. Why is Roger such a loser. Who are these people. Where did these people even come from. How can someone like Roger even exist. How is that even a possibility in the universe. How can you actually be a conscious aware thing experiencing what it is to be, Roger. What must that man think about himself, how must he see the world. How can you not react with disgust and hatred. How can you not fucking vomit on sight when you see Roger. I literally don’t get it. So that makes sense. Hopefully we can leave soon because I think the vibe has been killed. Also what the absolute fuck is going on with the sky right now.


From Good Antifreeze

Donna Dallas


When I drive back to the house
Three stories with
railroad rooms
still under foreclosure
my brother holed up
in the basement
sits on a toilet that doesn’t work
smokes meth for days
and trips
until his legs are purple
and swollen
from sitting in that same spot
my sister-in-law relies heavily
on Zani
she’s got a fucking gut like
Kuato is living under her shirt
the drink
from God knows what

I’ve watched the daisies
the African violets
under the weeping willow
year after year
I’ve tried to help them all
when I lived upstairs
and she would come up
black eyed and fucked up
or their kids would pound
on my door
scream bloody murder
because he beat her again
and again

The Weeping willow is dead now
looks like a
sinister twisted stump 
lurks behind a busted up fish tank
a ratty chair and a crate with empty beer
in my old apartment now live
her sister 
who escaped her ex
he became a Satan worshipper
she had to change her name just in case
he came for them
her, their daughter and son live there
along with the son’s girlfriend
this is how we live
it’s called white trash
it’s so obvious it’s a nationality
a branding

I still feel it
the trash
Mom would sit out the third floor
smoke cigarette after cigarette
watched everyone and everything
except us
I didn’t need watching
I needed a mother who wasn’t
and didn’t bring a bible toting boyfriend home
from AA
who would help us all recover
together in the house
in the middle of the block
surrounded by other white-trashers
with their own set of problems
and maybe a worse
or a lighter load
than ours

Judson Michael Agla

Shit Hole

I’m living in a shit hole; not a meta-fucking-phorical shit hole, an actual, literal shit hole at the bottom of an antiquated outhouse. I had to get the fuck out of Dodge immediately man; I had people after me, I had organizations after me, a few small third world countries, aliens, the church, and even the goddamn Chupacabra. The dogs were at the door man. I’d been spotted, filmed, my bank account was hacked, along with my email and rest of my goddamn computer, in fact I believe my computer was fucking hacking itself.

It’s quite amazing how much you have to think about when you’re off your meds. I’ve been digging tunnels; tunnels through tunnels, going up and down and sideways, it’s a goddamn labyrinth down here. I dug out small rooms furnished by the dump up the road; I had a small generator for light, and a flame-thrower for the rats, both to stop their insurrection and also for cooking.

The water is collected using a makeshift aqueduct running through the tunnels gathering all the drips streaming off the walls. I was pretty self-sufficient; but I still had to take little trips to the town down the road, for things I couldn’t produce myself, like fuel for the flame-thrower, this was essential for life in a shitter, the rat population represented a small army, and we didn’t get along at all. The generator needed gas as well; and I’d always stock up on cigarettes, as they were my only luxury.

I’d been hoping to tunnel myself into a gas line leading to the small gated community to the south, I could tap in and limit my trips out of the shitter, but I had a serious problem with my blueprints, I didn’t have any blueprints. That thought escaped me in the beginning; I never imagined I’d turn this shitter into what could very well be called, a subterranean condominium. I was getting lost all the time, but I kept tunneling, I figured I’d dug about one kilometer in the time I spent there.

That was another small crisis; I had no clue how long I’d been there, sure I could buy a calendar in town and some new batteries for my watches, but I don’t know when I arrived. I was stark raving fucking mad when I left the city, and could barely remember to dress myself, and yes, I actually walked out the door naked once. I guessed my stay in the shit hole to be about two and a half to three months, but really I hadn’t the slightest fucking idea.

There was something bothering me concerning the rats and their movements around a certain time of day; of course I had no idea what time that was but it was regular. Every so often I’d see no rats at all; then, after a while, they’d come around again, doing their rat business, whatever one could describe as rat business.

I’d begun to have a horrible sinking feeling about their absences; like maybe they were congregating somewhere in the tunnels. Maybe even conspiring against me; they could have been acting on the orders of one of my pursuers, or maybe just acting alone like a rogue guerilla force with its own agenda, I swear I could hear them talking, I had to investigate, but with extreme caution, they outnumbered me and it would be more advantageous to form a truce of sorts, than to battle when the odds were so clearly on their side. I wondered what Sun Tzu would say about this particularly peculiar type of warfare; then I realized that he would never let himself be caught in a shit hole facing an adversary such as a small army of rats. Clearly; I was on my own with this one.

I eventually found where the rats were gathering, and my suspicions were right on the money, there was an organized conspiracy at hand. However; I didn’t speak rat so I hadn’t a fucking clue as to what they were planning, but all evidence pointed to my demise.

After going through a copious diversity of problem solving methods; I decided that a full on frontal attack during one of their meetings was the way to go, the tank for the flame-thrower was full up, and could push out an enormous flame for about fifteen minutes, the most conservative account of the rats numbers was in and around one hundred and fifty (give or take), leaving just a few stragglers in the aftermath. 

I chose my moment; all the rats scurried off as per usual, I quietly crept towards their forum, and waited until the speaker had the rest of the rats engaged in whatever it was he was saying, I could hear them clapping in agreement after the long winded speeches from the many speakers in their clan.

Now was the time; I fucking pounced into the tunnel like a fire-breathing puma, and cooked as many rats as I could see, they obviously weren’t expecting this, I had the upper-hand, and it didn’t take long before I silenced their twisted conspiracy, the flame-thrower acted like a fucking bomb going off in that small space, what the fire didn’t take, the heat did.

As I gazed over the charred and still burning corpses of my adversaries; I made an extremely eye opening troublesome discovery, the evidence of the gas line I’d been searching for, I quickly realized that fire, heat, and a condensed space around a functioning gas line was in no fucking way in my best interest.

I dropped my weapon and crawled through the labyrinth of tunnels as fast as I could manage, I was trying to get to the original exit which was the outhouse on top of the shit hole, I got lost a few times but eventually made it, and I climbed out to the surface. I ran so fucking fast I lost my shoes in the process, I had no idea of how far the tunnels ran, so I just kept going.

Then it happened; still running with my tail between my legs, an explosion erupted behind me, sending me about six feet forward through the air and onto my fucking face. I managed to roll myself over to check the carnage, I was deaf at that point and could hardly see straight, but simply put; it was a giant fucking hole with rock, dirt, and burnt rats surrounding it. I have to admit that I took a certain pride in my destructive capabilities; that is, until I looked down and noticed the absence of one of my feet. I had to wonder what Sun Tzu would say about this extravaganza, I concluded that he’d probably have me locked up and executed. 

Joe Rolnicki

Volatile Scattershot 

Nihilistic but smiley
Reliably tired
I heard you’re absurd
Do you like to be choked?
I’ll drink your words like whiskey
And your cunt like coke
Where do I sign up
For the self-sabotage?
Take me to the ruins
Of a romantic mirage
I’m just a phase
I want to watch you jerk off
And runaway
Put me in your footnotes
Stick me in your seams
A volatile
Of humanity
And memes
I love you
Yes please
Never learn
Grab my ass
You can slap me harder than that
Who am I
Who’s asking
Who is anyone
Who cares
Let’s eat cereal
And watch cartoons
Is it nap time yet?

J.J. Campbell

sticky fingers

it’s always some old song
that makes me think about 
a lover from a quarter
century ago
something about those curves
and the way my tongue danced
around them that brings me
back to these empty pages
how those four-hour phone 
calls would always end with
sticky fingers
and the rare evenings we got
to spend together, laughing,
talking in bed, us against
the world
at least for a few months
i was too immature and you
were never certain i would be
the right influence for your son
and for an immature fucker
i understood what you meant
i’m sure your life turned out
how you wanted it to
you found the one you didn’t
have to settle for
yes, i remember that painful
conversation and the ramifications
it had for me to this very day
i could say i’m still searching
or i could say the truth and
throw my hands in the air
and admit defeat

The Manchurian Mandate, By Joseph Fulkerson

This chapbook is limited to a run of 50 copies, hand-numbered and signed by author. Only 21 copies left!

At a time when a nation is heavily divided by a bi-partisan political spectrum, The Manchurian Mandate acts as a call to action for the workers behind the scenes that keep the machine running. Joseph Fulkerson conjures the beat poets of past decades with this limited run manifesto which has a companion cassette tape homemade and recorded guerilla style. One long poem in a convenient paperback that can fit in your back pocket, The Manchurian Mandate urges the disenfranchised to remain patient for the right time for a revolution of thought. ‘I shudder at the consequence of my inaction,’ Fulkerson says midway through, remembering history’s harsh lessons with genocide and war, which are always a possibility for a society that has become complacent instead of vigilant. This is a piece that should be read and heard repeatedly and shared with others.

—Tim Heerdink, author of Razed Monuments and The Human Remains


This is not about politics. 
Let me rephrase that: this isn’t about one side of the aisle or the other. 
This isn’t about Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative. 
If you think it is, you are missing the point. You may even be part of the problem. 
No, this is about not having enough of the right things and too much of the wrong things. 
This is about having our priorities misaligned, or more aptly having our priorities aligned with those to whom our best interests are not their priority. 
This is for all of those who work or have worked dead end jobs, minimum wage jobs, multiple jobs, to make ends meet. 

Those who earn their keep with the sweat of their brows and at the expense of their families, dreams, and health. 

Those on the frontlines, the back lines, and everywhere in between. 

This was written for the workers whose jobs have been deemed essential, vital even, to the day to day lives of all of us. 
We are Legion.


The Manchurian Mandate in all it’s lo-fi glory! Performed and recorded onto cassette. Comes in a custom linocut slipcover.


Adult Nature, By Matthew Licht

Matthew Licht has a dirty mind, a dirty keyboard, and the very best intentions. His literary world is a place of sleaze and trash, religious sex cults, talking anuses, melancholy strippers and monkish opium smokers, sex in toilets, and voyeurism in the back of limos. And yet there’s also a genuine warmth and decency in his writing and in his view of the world. It’s an interesting contradiction. Or maybe it’s no contradiction at all.

Geoff Nicholson, author of “Still-Life with Volkswagens” and “The Lost Art of Walking”

There’s a dark and edgy wit to Licht’s stories in this crazy, often comic collection, a wit that veers from erotic to emetic and back, and that has heart in it as well. A vividly imagined world where, as the man says, ‘joy and rage and thinking things could be different boiled down to thighs spread for a dollar’. But there is hope there too, among the strippers and the dealers and the no-hopers, and sometimes even a chance for escape, as the usually luckless hero of the final tale finds out.

—Charles Lambert author of “The Children’s Home” and “With a Zero at its Heart “