On Drawing By Billy Mavreas
On Drawing
By Billy Mavreas
From Vol. 3 No. 1, 2004
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Dialup Disenchantment, by Vivian Unger
Dialup Disenchantment
by Vivian Unger
from Vol. 2 No. 2, 2002
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ANARKISSED by Sherwin Tjia
ANARKISSED
a pseudohaiku
collection (40)
by sherwin tjia
From Vol. 2 No. 2, 2002
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Solitude, by S. Godin
Solitude, by S. Godin
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Snub Part Five: Church and State by Rob Labelle
Snub Part Five: Church and State
By Rob Labelle
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For a Good Time Call… By Mike Long
For a Good Time Call…
By Mike Long
From Vol. 2 No. 3, 2002
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A story by Derek Henkel
A story by Derek Henkel
From Vol. 2 No. 3, 2002
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Bedrock City by Larry Whittaker
Bedrock City
by Larry Whittaker
From Vol. 2 No. 2, 2002
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A Little Talk About Reproduction JR Carpenter
A Little Talk About Reproduction
By J.R. Carpenter
From Vol. 3 No. 1, 2004
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Snub part 3 by Rob Labelle
From Vol. 1 No. 4
I was twenty-one and just back from a trip around the world. Well, as far as Istanbul,
where I got some sort of weird flu. So my parents’ graduation present ended with me sitting in Montreal’s new Mirabel airport- so empty after the rest of the world- bent over, holding myself in but not wanting to leave my bags to run to the can.
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HOWDY NEIGHBOR Chris Burns
From Vol. 1 No. 6
I’m lying on my stomach on a sandy beach. I have one arm draped over my eyes because the sun is so strong it permeates through my closed lids. I lick my shoulder because I enjoy the salty taste of the sea and sweat. My crotch is pressed against the bumps in the sand and I suddenly have half a hard-on to handle. I’m deliberating whether it would be less conspicuous to lift up my ass, reach into my shorts and pull the sucker up (so that it can bulge any which way but loose) or flip myself over to relieve the pressure (in the hope that it will peter out but at the risk of it popping out and saluting my fellow vacationers) when a bell rings…
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you are a tea bag, my love Catherine Kidd
you are a tea bag, my love
From Vol. 1 No. 5, 1999
If there are certain calender days by which one might reasonably mark time “this time” please tell them to me now. Days, these days, have been scarcely differentiated from one another, like instant tea granules dissolved in water. Or again, like antiquated buttons tossed willy-nilly in a box. Please pick one now, and I will slip my pen into the buttonhole, start from there, draw constellations like a spyrograph. These atomic patterns need not make sense tomorrow. Only now, in order that I may position myself in this chair suspended in the air by piano-cables.
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On The Occasion of Rocket Richard’s Funeral Patrick Vallely
I never saw the Rocket play. But I loved the team he made famous. On the morning of his funeral, the area around The Forum was pretty dead. I had expected something: traffic, crowds. This, after all, was the building that the Rocket had immortalized: the citadel to hockey when hockey mattered. But there were only construction workers gutting the building, turning it into a giant cineplex. (more…)
