Vol. 3, No. 1 Contents

"I would like to—I mean, I do write what I call closet fiction—"

Dr. Edwine was pontificating at his own reflection in a brandy Alexander puddle (a man his size had no fear of a ladies' beverage redounding poorly upon his masculinity).

In her dreams of November Isabel was always free. Consider: November in the district of Novaliches is the perfect medias res.

Still in the sunlight he had to squint. His eyes, never his most trustworthy apparatus, still hurt. Sunglasses were an option at first but they made him self-conscious, as baneful a death as blindness.

Near the old Jefferson Airplane mansion, in back of a cab on the right side, drunk on more than wine, I'm looking over at the sedan next to us. The passenger is the stellar blonde replica of a porn star/exotic dancer of some repute.

Why remember? Why recount at family gatherings embarrassing, exciting, terrifying, painful events? Why tell tales of great-grandpa so-and-so who ranched a remote valley in the mountains against incredible odds, or of a grandma who ate bread and dog gravy during the Great Depression?

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Like the fuel load of bombers,

clichés come squared and balanced…

if the lights are on or off, if we're in the kitchen

or the bedroom, half-naked or fully disrobed at six

or seven when we should be thinking about other things

and I really don't care for this position or that particular…

Sometimes it's the color red

in a weave or the sun north of Rome

or the rubber band around a two-hole punch

                    and suddenly I'm there again—

lately i am fascinated with lines,

with the edges of things:           where i end

and where the world begins.

Ink forms the mathematical symbol

for infinity over a bicep.

The odor of sin lingers

in concrete blocks joined…

Remember our reunification

along the infernal half of the Styx?

How we read each

other's recent torments…

From green and brown carpets

constellating the globe, we focused vacuous eyes

and rounded mouths. Once more

the door smiled him in…

She is captivated by tongues,

her own as well as others.

In the mirror, she scrutinizes

its relief-map underbelly…

After the surgery, my mother dipped a rag into a hissing

bucket of Pine-Sol, scrubbed away the musk-metallic

blood from the flesh-toned seat…