It all started when Harry had to move into the apartment.

The walls were white, and there were marks where the previous tenant had hung pictures. Harry went around the place, measuring these spaces. In a notepad, he wrote down numbers. He drew little diagrams.

Then he spent the next day in town. It was more difficult than he’d imagined, but he finally got everything he needed: seventeen pictures, each one corresponding to a white space on his walls. Harry didn’t care about the pictures – one was of a grinning cat in the rain, and Harry disliked cats – he just cared that they fitted the spaces.

He spent that evening drinking coffee and hanging the pictures, and eventually he lay down in bed.

The previous tenant had left the mattress, and although Harry was used to sleeping on the left, this mattress had an indentation on the right. Harry lay down in this exact spot. It was too small for him, but it felt safe, and in the morning when he woke he found he hadn’t moved. Continue reading “Someone Else and Harry by Jason Jackson” →

It’s a bad habit I picked up

when still living out my pack of lies

& can’t quite shake

attention like a drug

I keep shooting

down the highways of my wanting veins

exposing myself to men

like a circus curiosity

the Amazing Chick with a Dick Continue reading “Confessional by Meeah Williams” →

it won’t do,

grandmother said,

to show bare legs.

you need smoothness

and muscle tone—

not to mention the

barrier between

the hands of men

or even their eyes

and your flesh.

no silk to be had,

and there’s a war,

by the way.

but, still—

the illusion must

remain intact,

nothing’s changed!

Continue reading “Painted Legs by Juliette van der Molen” →

puckered tight,

disapproving lips,

where threads have

pulled and gathered

red and white gingham

checks across a chest

that doesn’t know how

to expand, just yet.

tennis shoes tied

in double knots,

sun licking pavement

until it is gooey,

spongy with heat. Continue reading “S(mocked) by Juliette van der Molen” →

He who may be she

used to think playing piano

was a way to touch god, or at least

something beyond the window

not made of  tarmac, livid body

parts. Such a god, music-mother,

swaggering-string-weaver, hip-horn rooster, took him

(as teachers then stamped her,

with the authority of corridors

going nowhere), took her mind off

Continue reading “Rapid Eye Movement by Kevin Jackson” →