“The cat drops a mouse at your feet/as if he figures that will please you./The poor creature’s neck is broken,/stomach split and oozing blood.” A new poem by John Greay.
There’s a revolution coming to medical care. Not a new surgical procedure to rejuvenate the aging baby boomers, or even the recently approved drug for female libido. No, it is ICD-10 CM. If it is such a breakthrough, you are probably wondering how you have missed it. ICD-10 CM, International Classification of Diseases, tenth version, is how physicians…
“Everyone had 4 or 5 children, and needed to go out without them. 50 cents an hour. I cleaned the house, folded baskets upon baskets of laundry, took care of children, whose ages were skipping stones 5, 4, 3, 2, months old, including a set of twins.” M.J. Iuppa on working for gum money.
“As I drove home that night,/I was nearly certain we could, if nothing/more, save each other.” A new poem by Joshua Huber.
“Handing out rejection after rejection is a thankless job, and it drains me. But I will try to be kind…To begin with, Change Me Mommy, I’m Wet, would not be an ideal title even for a book supposedly written by an infant.” New fiction from Gael DeRoane.
“I’m talking about actual ‘coke movies,’ the ones where it’s clear everyone on set—or at least the ones in charge—seem to be making decisions in a cocaine-induced frenzy. Marked by intensely committed but slightly skewed editing, writing, and camera placement and movement, a coke movie feels obsessively personal yet constantly distracted.” Roger Leatherwood with an appreciation of a very specific genre.
:If I lived in Chicago, I wonder/if there would be a constant tug/from the locked stream/that runs through The Lurie Garden–” A new poem by Susan Fuchtman.
“But what’s most surprising about this novel, which ends in a lean 186 pages, is Jean Krenshaw’s complexity. She is likeable and unlikable, deeply sympathetic and profoundly unknowable.” Alex Mattingly reviews The Good Divide.
I’ve been keeping this all in for a while now, trying to be nice and not start a full-on war with the only other living member of my species, but Jesus fucking Christ, Peter. I can’t do it anymore. You’re making us look bad, and I can no longer sit idly by and let you…
Bury me in red, Langston said. Bury me in red, ‘cos there ain’t no sense in my bein’ dead. The line echoed in my head, giving me an absurd smile as I handed over the tastefully bagged blue underwear and bra that my mother would wear to her funeral. It had been more difficult than I…