The Millicent Rose Dining Saloon was full, or almost at Max Capacity, with the usual array of in situ bastards and sly, wiry gabardine strangers who buttoned-up onehanded and caused a mild ruckus in the borderline unusual gripes of their later evenings.

“Per se, this is just to…say, that is.”

I get nothing but terrible submissions from private morons looking to go public with their idiocy. Terrible titles. Terrible grammar. Terrible stories with terrible narration.

This is what it’s like to run a literary magazine. This is where we are at with the current state of the written word. History’s…

Slumped, more not of it than most, he shoulders his mostly feeble way, rakish and awkward, recklessly slaloming through the crowd with an almost shuddering abandon towards, well, nothing. He has no destination. Nowhere to go, or be. There are just these motions that he makes. He goes through things…

We are hyper-aware and self-conscious to a fault —

lackluster beings full of barbeque-flavored chips and bubbly water.

The squirrels scramble like apostrophes through the scrubby brush,

relating amorphous flights of branches and seeds,

the scrawny language of pre-coffee collages in what dawn’s light hasn’t risen to yet.

The highway’s…

(photo by davy carren)

Dostoyevsky’s wife had to pawn her underwear to pay for his gambling debts. Me? My mother was a swimsuit model in the ’80s. So, that’s what I had to deal with growing up. It was an emotional deductible on my sudsy well-being, being dragged forthwith by so many just/unjust causes…

I wonder if these sorts of clouds change the kind of thoughts people get. That certain prance in the sky, there. Do people come to different conclusions because of the manipulations of the weather? Are we merely creatures of circumstance? Auspices be damned. We’re drifters, at best. Clamped to the…

THOMAS JEFFERSON: I woke up maladjusted to the world today. Suddenly, now, I don’t fit in. Can’t make it like the rest of them do. I’m here willfully on the outside of everything, drooling towards Saturday’s bliss-point crave, not a place for me in the whole sun-smeared world.


music changes everything (here,


majors denuded to rubberized polyphonies

as he stretches verdurous limbs

opposed to adipose with a splash of creamer

elementally elementary in curvaceous matters of the kidney

(ah why don’t’cha ride on off on the orange horse ya went that’a’way with?)

another bitter crusade’s avant-garde adventure

(photo by davy carren)

Calculated dissent,

a rough cut into a baseline of untethered raw data. And

here we go,

and are, again.

Boosters and busted buttons.

The point never gotten to.

The mood

never quite adjusted. And so,

all terms of the heart get limited and decompose in (or into) a finer dust.

(photo by davy carren)

People are always asking me, “Why are you not famous?” It happens to me all the time. Well, often enough that I’d mention it in passing. Like here.

A person will float, “Where’s your next book signing? Why haven’t you been on The Late Show? You’re the answer to a…

Davy Carren

The only writer who matters

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