Poetry of Issue #1                        Page 19
Click page 1 Click page 2 Click page 3 Click page 4 Click page 5 Click page 6 Click page 7 Click page 8 Click page 9 Click page 10 Click page 11 Click page 12 Click page 13 Click page 14 Click page 15 Click page 16 Click page 17 Click page 18 Click page 20 The Blog Bog The Mag Rack	Men Without Faces Men with guns, in fire fights, with body armor and without, firing for effect; scene of the crimes, marked with yellow tape, Caucasian chalk circles, blood stains and hair mats; evidence everywhere, spent shells, shattered glass, crack baggies and pipes; stolen cars, crotch rockets, ride 'em as if you stole 'em impact impressions, exploded plate glass, downed power polls, trees; heads behind dirt smeared windows, see nothing empty of expression eyes, TV remote muted flat screens, blood and sand in the street, no sound necessary; bodies without faces, road rashed and fucked up beyond recognition, cell phone text messages from hell in cargo pants pockets, first responders half a continent away; hours without minutes, clocks without hands, smell of cordite, of gasoline, of death; men without faces and the arms that they bear.                             Alan Catlin	The Argument The canvas begins with a bucket of blood                          She says, It's not enough He disagrees                                A pound of flesh is added Tacky, she says, obvious The ceiling fixtures are removed by force Hot wires are exposed bulb glass is compressed beneath bare feet tubes of paint are opened like veins Incomplete and out of focus, she says He disagrees Another pound of flesh is added                             Alan Catlin	Collecting Turned To Hoarding From inside my head to my computer screen, I collect storybook ideas. Too many to count or mention each range from simple objects: a noose, golden tokens, ghosts, and fire shaped bodies, to basic concepts, such as a black stallion conjured with red eyes and the ability to breath fire. Each waits to be a poem or a short story. They still wait, even after I collect more, until I can develop their forms. Once I develop their forms, they still wait for publication.                             David Hernandez _______________________________________________________ Constantly Needing a Push For smoking a cigarette too much around my house, my lungs collapsed and now I need my parents to carry me around town. I don't need any help, I can move on my own. I don't need to apply for a job, nobody's hiring. Neither whippings nor an electroshock weapon can make me move. If I fall, I won't get up. The coughing is getting worse. Blood spills and I'm forced to lie still. Maybe I could apply to the hospital as a living patient.                             David Hernandez