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Faux King in the Parking Lot   It was in the parking lot at the Samba Club between sets at the Huxley wedding and he was an Elvis impersonator. We’d eyed each other during “Love Me Tender” through his heavy lashes he nodded me over. Ah, to be taken without being adored. Though to be adored without being taken is also a wonder. Those silver studs on his white suit. The Brylcreem (I didn’t know they still made it) left oil stains, dammit, on my nice linen skirt. Techno boinked from a passing car and we pumped to it. He said his wife didn’t understand him. “I never sleep with happily married men,” I told him. Curling his lip, the faux king shot “Then you ought to sleep with your [...]

Datura suaveolens If there were flowers on the moon they’d look like this, droopy and luminous, butter-colored, fading down to white, I’m thinking, swinging my bare feet, sipping at some moon-hued wine from the lunar landscape of Sardegna, just as he asks me if I know they’re often called “moon- flowers.” I did not know that, but I’m not surprised that he does, nor that he’s read my poem-thoughts again. I do know, though, that this blowsy flower’s parts are hallucinogenic as all get out, something that Rappaccini would have been proud to bring into existence were he in that business rather than that of breeding a toxic daughter, beautiful but unlovable. And just then I remember how we went for a walk through the park behind Domus Aurea one [...]

For a poet who confesses to having more subscriptions to science magazines than literary ones, it’s not surprising to find something like Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle couched in the closing of a poem such as “Your Way,” you get just one thing or the other— where the water came from, or the water. What is surprising and gratifying is that James Richardson’s poetry is not merely clever. It is also tender. Not necessarily in the way that Bishop’s “The Shampoo” is tender. It is not so much intimacy but a glimpse into the grander scale of things that puts our smallness into perspective, that kind of perspective science usually gives through its comprehension of vast spaces and terribly long intervals of time. It’s a perspective that permits a compassion for the [...]

The Downside of Superpowers Invisibility makes you aloof, brute super strength makes you an easy mark for anyone with trucks to haul, no spark of gratitude from them. The truth? Your gift is only special if there's proof and ordinary mortals want your work to entertain them day and night, til dark, your life a kind of superpower spoof where all you do is turn them on with speed or x-ray sight or teleported flesh, the way you walk through walls or dash through time. Does anybody care about your needs, grant you vacation days, an empty beach? No wonder apathy's become your crime. _________________________________________________________________________ Allison Joseph lives, writes and teaches in Carbondale, Illinois, where's she's part of the creative writing faculty at Southern Illinois University.  Her latest books are [...]

Natasha close up Two Sylvias

We bed down in a room/named Poppy/the sound of something alarming/across the hall

tom blood

a man carrying a dirigible defense/the one we hand around is full/final and stifling, like a love or re-entry


In 2021, we’ll have jetpacks. FREE JETPACKS.

carabella sands

I found a new boyfriend. He approached me while I watched birds pluck worms out of a rainy field. I asked him why the birds were able to find worms as soon as they landed. He said worms float on water. Then he kissed me. I felt like a worm.

bobby parker

He stares at her chest, the line of cleavage that may as well be a crack in his bedroom wall, thinking maybe the sun will explode if he reaches out and touches it, that she might hold his haunted hand tight against her heart until it gets dark, and tell him their marriage was a message that failed to send, and tell him their daughter is a dream

It's the very last day of 2014, and I wanted to post one more installment of TheThe Infoxicated Corner before we take off a few (more) weeks, and I catch y'all again a bit later into the New Year. I can't believe Infoxicated went live at the beginning of September: the past few months have flown by, and yet I have the feeling that we've gone some crazy places together through all the absolutely stunning contributions people have shared with us. I feel very blessed to have brought y'all this amazing stuff, and really grateful to the other TheThe crew, who invited me and and gave me my own little corner. (How sad would it be if I didn't have this platform, and this embarrassment of aesthetic/creative riches had been [...]

cob, like bone—no rain on the horizon—
rows of kernels puckering,
until the corn prays
for even earworms and flea beetles to come

As both a nursing student and a patient, I have encountered repeated instances of clinicians and other health professionals using strikingly inappropriate language to talk to and about the people they are caring for. This is especially true in women’s health, a field that is positively rife with, for lack of a fancier term, bad language. Let’s begin with a seemingly benign example. When a baby is born, we often describe him or her as having been “delivered.” Delivered from what? Evil? The postal service?

Lasky’s poetics channel something of Johnston’s powerful lack of pretense—the difference is that we know Lasky can sing. Johnston’s brilliance was his art’s power over and against the lack of traditional “talent” of its artist—Lasky, though, is unbearably talented.


In 2013 and 2014, several houses of The Heidelberg Project were destroyed by separate acts of arson. No perpetrator has been caught, and the houses were damaged beyond repair. Rather than despair, however, the folks at THP -- led by Tyree -- simply turned the burned-out shells into something new and newly lovely.

On the way back to the boy’s house you will ask about his girlfriend.
You will think of three as a prime number.
Things will not go well,
as things sometimes don’t.
For a while you will speak to neither of them.
The boy will become famous and you will miss him,
but you will never admit to this weakness.

You will think about the girl every day for the next twelve years.

The poems radiate a murky symbolism that is mysterious and sexualized, echoing and promising violence: women carry boxes of sadness, lace drags on the ground, sometimes the lace is blood-stained. Hundreds of bears lumber and low softly outside the windows.