Archive for June, 2012

Poetry Issue # 145

Poem titles that start with “and” have a lot to live up too, and the ones featured here do just fine.

On a separate note. If you’re going to address the head poetry editor by first and last name in your submission, I guess it would be detrimental to not know his name, or to spell it wrong. My name is Luis Rivas. Not Louise. Not Louis. Not Rivera.

I mean, you can call me Mr. Fucktard Sanchez Shit Sandwich but if you have awesome words that are arranged perfectly as poetry, then fine, you win. Call me what you want. But if it’s subpar, you’re shit out of luck.

Hey, let’s change it up a bit. What’s everyone’s opinion on making the poetry issue have a new theme each month? Maybe for July we can have poetry on being fired from a job, then for August have a theme on fire/burning things/people. Sounds good?

Yours truly,
The Poetry Editors
Lewis Rivera Rodriguez Flores-Magon & Henry Ajumeze

And Roads
By Ananya S Guha
There is a way to traverse roads.

Roads are uncanny. They lead you

to paths strewn with rice, paddy fields

and mud. This is in India. But home is here

and roads reckon that and take you to abyss

of myths: mosques and temples.

Forts and minarets. Somewhere the mast flies.

Somewhere it does not, but roads are omniscient with children

as playthings and hutments as barriers.

Roads then, are forbidden.

They become loquacious and prattle.

The noise is incessant. Only when there is a storm

are silent. And penurious.

Have you heard their lament or the snipers which assail them,

in Iraq, Afghanistan and Egypt?

Mortgage these roads, but don’t banish them into crusades( of war).

You will understand plenitude, volatile war, love and what takes

to make a land, a country, a nation.

And Roads.


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Fiction #130

One time Poetry Editor for Gloom Cupboard, I return to the team as Assistant Fiction Editor. My preference for longer fiction shows in the collection I’ve put together here, but I feel each piece is well worth the ride.   Enjoy!

No Hablo Espanol

Richard Neumayer

The instant we cross the border, Mexicans swarm us. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m terrified.

They’re husky and black-haired with grizzled temples. They have moustaches. They wear white shirts and dark sunglasses. They shout at us and wave their arms, adding a layer of thick spicy sweat to air already choked with diesel and sewage fumes. (more…)

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