An independent, ad-free leftist magazine of critical essays, poetry, fiction, and art.
by Matt Bernico. For some, faith-motivated politics looks like far-right evangelical Christianity. Others find ways to go to church every Sunday while remaining unconcerned about drone-striking children in the Middle East. Others yet interpret the faithful life as giving it all up to join the guerillas. Because of all of this, it’s helpful to look to some modern-day saints to light the way.
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by Steven Monacelli. It’s 6:00PM on President’s Day and I’ve just walked into the local CWA Hall in East Dallas. Representatives from a coalition of progressive and leftist groups are still setting up their tables. A mother tosses a yellow ball to her young son, who starts playing with two other kids who can’t be older than 10.
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by Tyler Walicek. A recent post from the premiere satirical destination for out-of-touch liberals, McSweeney’s “Internet Tendency,” is structured as a series of letters from one “Amber” to her ex-“Bernie Bro” boyfriends, each of them repellent (to her) in their own distastefully “alternative” way.
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by Jamie Hood. Let me try again / You know this story / We all do
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by R.M. Haines: Bâtil: the false. At Abu Ghraib, / those prisoners our soldiers posed / and photographed with bound hands
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by Steven Monacelli. Replete with all forms of profiteers—contractors, weapons manufacturers, think tanks, and lobbyists—war remains to this day a lucrative business. The products are meant to destroyed. The losses are socialized, while the gains remain private.
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by Amy Marvin. Millennials are killing the shopping malls / reads the dying papers but they display / a finely aged skeleton at this point
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by Carl Harris. Lest I be accused of fugitation in flagrante, I write to you, my trusted correspondents, from a motel in Encino, California. Fellow soldiers in the information war have betrayed me and my mission, smearing my name with accusations of instability and compromised journalistic integrity.
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by Prince Bush. Maybe the highest / Stakes, stick scaffolding / On rhetorical structure.
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by Mel G. Last night, I dreamt of bombs dropped on babies. I woke to the echoes of screaming children in my ears, nearly an hour before my alarm. It’s hard to accurately describe the violent combination of rage and dismay that I felt this morning, the images of broken bodies of innocents fading away in the dark of pre-dawn.
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