#3 Gin Mill Cowboy


A re-print story by  Susie Idel 

A classic beat re-print: SEND OUT THE DOGS

The Offbeats – Mike Covey

Swaying ~ William Taylor Jr

Poems as Prayers (for Alan Kaufman) ~ William Taylor Jr

Kinder Than the Day ~ William Taylor Jr

Club Web ~ Bill Ectric

The Offbeats – Mike Covey  


Francesca Aspromonte:The Appraisers Prognosis

I don’t talk the whole time–
I sit really still and wish I were able to not seem so eager
Or maybe perplexed– I cannot tell the difference.
You glance over at me longingly and I am barren or infertile or uncomprehending
Or maybe I just don’t care.
Because I am barren and infertile and you are uncomprehending

My appraiser said you aren’t worth a dime
Your dusty mouth breathes no fresh breath and I am exhausted at the sight of you
You are musty and you do not play the part so well after all
Instead you are rubbish among all the other broken toys

I take you outside to play with me, but you desert me for the other boys and girls- –tired of my comebacks and long-winded pauses

But loyalty is not foreign to me

I still take you in and bath you,
Wrap you warmly and coo in your ears,

As you falls asleep drooling the whole time on my shoulder.

Francesca Aspromonte:Perverse Periwinkle Promises

I used to light matches to your memory
Frequently burnt and charred
I traded it in for false starts and cosmic hiccups
Kinesthetic maneuvers and hopeful follies
Nevertheless, still the endless dreamer
Running through pumpkin patches of heartache
Poppy fields, full of fabled loves
Tripping on dandelions bent on devastation
Periwinkle Promises, though, they’ve always known their place
I’ve always been told I have a sullen look
A look that brings to mind dead ancestors and molding fauna
The way I brush the hair away from my eyes, the distant stare
All reminiscent of catastrophe
Or redemption
Hard metal and crushed glass
Molten sulfur and jagged ice
I sit still, no time, summer time

Listen to the breeze as I think back–
Wonder if the passerby can still see the imprint of that look or
If this face has given way to a new one that I cannot quite put my finger on
Or if I could, choose not to
I stretch the muscles of my cheeks
Puck out my lips and smile widely

As he plays my ribs like a harp
(I do not like him very much)

Do not like the way he mutters my name
Brings back memories of my dead cat

I close my eyes to visions of dead cats which paw at the white speckled dots taking shape past my eyes
Knowing that the dots have no real meaning, that they are just there to remind me of

How alone I really am

How obscure they make me feel, these dots.
And how sick this makes me feel.

I weep

But since I do not like him very much I am not ashamed and do not try to hide as I may normal have

Tears, speckles, and dead cats dance aimlessly, melt together, marry, and become one.

#1 – Beat Archive

Adelle Stripe Adrian West Asymptote Berfrois Tumblr Blank Bomb Christiana Spens

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Ruins of the 20th Century Samuel Beckett  Spurious

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The Believer Logger The Biographical Dictionary of Literary Failure

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