by Ivy Rozen This poem was originally published in Hot Pot Magazine. We ate avocadoson toast, in salads, with chips.We craved their pits.We saved them inventi plastic cups, logo fadingbut my mom’s misspelled nameremained in Sharpie. Tap water, lukewarm:only fill it half-way.Stab the heart with wooden stakesto hold it up,…
by Russell Rowland No hole is too smallfor a mouse to get into your head. First alarm might bea gnawing sound under floorboards.Treating the symptom, you poundon the floor. Sound stops,briefly. Then resumes. Poundingwill not stop it now. Or you find tiny black seedsin your sock drawer, inside a pianoyou…
by Roland Goity Back in the eighties, my buddy Tommy and I saw every hair metal band from Los Angeles and beyond. We even formed our own hair band and noise polluted every neighborhood in Reseda. These days we’re empty nesters, and since his wife was away at a conference…