The Cafe Review

by H. D. Brown Sailor Girl for J. J. He could make them dance the shitty sailor girl tattoos pricked into his forearms over months of

by H. D. Brown the scrimshaw scratchings covering grandpa Schmidt weren’t the patterned sailor tattoos that cover these college girls Captain

by Florence Weinberger You slow you live your life on a molecular level each joule of pain enhanced like nerve endings through the lens of a

by Florence Weinberger The poet admits it herself, her poem makes no sense, she says it might have started with the death of my salamander, whose

by Oz Hardwick The moon is heavy tonight, plump and livid, barely clearing the black ground. Blind and bloodshot, it eyes nothing.

by Oz Hardwick Running Man Prague, Warsaw, Leipzig There he is, black–clad, blurred face contorted, chaos in his eyes before the

by Oz Hardwick It’s a map of the tracks where angels fell, linking Heaven and Hell; the constellations before they shrank to pinpricks; a

by Wesley McNair Remembering all the sorrow at the last Sykes reunion, when the family patriarch and war hero, Homer, went down at the microphone

by Russ Sargent Here I am, donning the savage bliss. Charging my genome with metagrams before those mutant maggots show up and try to teach me

by Steve Luttrell It was always about beginnings. The first push to what seemed most insistent. The impulse then to act, to bring off some

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