By Joel Matulich
detectives jot down brass knuckle
No reason to hide my alibi.
dim opinions are of no account.
impale my heart in the public sphere.
I talk of love, art, peace, organic
growing? Limp hand-me-downs, or a
porno? I cannot. My
tear is for her stubbed camel toe and
that won’t jive. The opium
parade route released dynamite
A little folding of the hands
sleep. The door is kicked in, property
Horseback bandits with golden sneers point
comb tobacco juice in their beards.
electrician by trade, Joel lives in Tulalip,
WA and studies creative writing at Seattle Pacific University. His work has
appeared previously in California Pop, Forbidden Peak Press, Lingua
and As You Were, and The Military Review.
Terry Butler lives in the country, near
a small town south of San Jose, CA called Hollister.
He used to write steadily, publishing both in print and online as Terence Butler, but after
some health issues, the energy needed to write seemed to dissipate somewhat. He has been
a professional photographer and a painter/collage-assemblage maker for most of his working
life, so painting and photo art have taken the place of genre fiction as an outlet. Recently
the story “Fire Man” appeared all as a piece in his mind so he simply
wrote it down. He sent it to Cindy, and in the ensuing back and forth. They somehow
discussed using some of his visual art, too. Cindy is simply the best, and a
real stalwart in this little world. She has a big heart and a deep love for