This entry is part of a series, Rhetorical Devices» , Rhetorical Devices» , Rhetorical Devices» PHOTO by . I’m going to put the next few terms under the larger sweep of synecdoche, a word that is dangerous to delve into since theorists and language experts, in their mania to confine, have proven themselves enemies of it: synecdoche, in its Greek form, is an amazingly useful and valuable term. It pretty much means: “It’s understood.” And we can break “it’s understood” down into three or four classes: 1. It’s understood that the part means the whole: “The arm of the state.” 2. It’s understood that the whole means the part: “The state called today and said I owe them my first child.” 3. It’s understood that it’s not to be taken in a hyperbolic way, although said in a hyperbolic way: “She’s a wreck.” This third one is so close to [...]

Cue, Routine, Reward I’d like you, for a moment, to think of writing not as a calling or gift or pipe dream, not even a profession or hobby. Instead, I’d like you to think of writing as a habit. For at least the remainder of this article, the desire to write is not some high-minded, abstract and holy adventure. It is, rather, no greater or lesser a task than brushing your teeth. I started thinking about writing in these terms when I read Charles Duhigg’s fantastic about the formation of habit through the lens of companies like Target. Here, I’d like to take that information and apply it to writing, examining habits that inhibit my writing, and what it takes to make writing a habit, looking to bolster the writing habit and curb the interfering habits. The first step is understanding the habit loop: cue, routine, and reward. Duhigg explains [...]

Sad Indianapolis I go to the movie theatre to look at the rows of exit lights just to feel like I’m landing in my life. I tried to pull the world back from the explosion; but it is snowing; the sky looks like falling ash. Each morning I stitch together a moment, say, the muted light around a bowl of peaches, but soon the junior senator in me so timidly casts his vote for desire I can barely pour the milk. Sad Indianapolis, famous only for a race that comes once a year, the noise so loud it evacuates the head briefly and orderly like a fire drill; then it all returns: worries, regrets, Yvonne, the hilltop, endless strip- mall parking lots where I would sit as a teenager, the tongue of the world on my battery, and feel a huge, yet exact emptiness, as if someone were unfolding thousands [...]

Warning: mUutations are arbitrary interpretive readings that change the poems into something they’re not. Proceed at your own risk. See for more info. Here’s Matthew Zapruder’s “To a Predator” I woke up early and saw a fox. It was leaping and dragging its glorious red and white tail behind it across the road. It held a grasshopper in its mouth, which it dropped when it saw the small carcass of a young javelina. Last night I was woken by their hairless rooting through a field of cactus in moonlight. They all stood together, ears rotated forward into the breeze, protecting the single mother protecting a pair of young. Their mustachioed labium superius oris i.e. upper lip protects a gentle tusk the color of greywater. I almost sympathize with their corporate need to snuffle and roam in packs until dawn returns them to hollows they made in the ground. But my [...]

I figured I’d post these. Many poets employ them without ever knowing their names, and that seems to work, but I like knowing the names of things. There’s something thrilling and wise ass to me about going through the world, saying: “Oh look! A Eurasian tree sparrow!” At age six, I fell in love with a girl because she would say things like “isn’t the planet Venus lovely tonight? Look, Joseph, it is rising over the Chivas Regal billboard sign across the street!” Who wouldn’t love a girl who talked like that? I guess a lot of people might find her a trifle pedantic, but the pedantry of never being allowed to know anything gets on my nerves. It’s as if everyone were being stingy and saving it up for a test or waiting for me to make a mistake so that they could hammer me over the head with [...]

This entry is part of a series, On Kate Durbin» Lisa A. Flowers: One of the things I thought was interesting–and admirably bold–about The Hills was that it wasn’t afraid to, conceivably, bore its readers; wasn’t afraid to not entertain, which is a rather ingenious juxtaposition considering that, of course, the book is about entertainment, and by default about instant gratification. (In your recent reading at AWP, you even mention that the piece, as read aloud, might conceivably come across as “boring” without the participation of readers acting as the voices of various characters, so the narrative is clearly a multi-media interaction as presentation as well as in print). Beneath the “naked eye” repetition, there’s an indefinable undercurrent–as if someone had slipped something into a drink and the room had started to shift and alter imperceptibly, or a kind of white noise that had been quietly building had suddenly made [...]

$ I hope you like documentaries / never mind what about. In Newsweek I highlight / “the heads of people” in an article about the postures of different species / probably ours isn’t the only posture containing artifice / I’m letting the day trans- form into symptoms / if you concentrate you can expect / a tiny role in the rest of / your life / to make notations on human feelings / play your records / anyway the world thinks you’ve gone / to sleep / foregoing I can’t remember what / the end of the song? the arm swings back / in place after playing a 78 a la reverse mortgage / the adamancy of growing older / for a minute / and then I guess what you see in movies can happen to us. ___________________________________________________ Christopher Salerno’s books of poems include Minimum Heroic, winner of the 2010 [...]

This entry is part of a series, Conformity and Obedience» When I was ten or so, a large flock of starlings, and assorted brown-headed cowbirds used to come visit a deserted lot near my house every fall. I liked nothing better than to run among them, and listen to the collective soughing swoop of their wings as they lit out for the trees. It was best if the sky was full of brooding cumuli. It was best if the wind was trying to rip the brown leaves from the pin oaks. I don’t know why this made me feel so happy. When those birds no longer showed up the next year, it was a short but real grief that overcame me, and I would go to the lot in order to feel my grief more keenly. Since the birds were no longer present, my grief over their absence sufficed. Wildness–to [...]

I dally. It is one of my strengths. I remember when I was ten years, driving to Boston in a groggy, once-flooded luxury Mitsubishi and telling my father, “Sire, it is summer, the windows are locked in the up position, and the engine’s heat is seeping through the vents.” He responded, “Your mind dallies, Thomas Charles Bair III; it is winter, the windows are rolled down, and the air conditioning is on. And do not contradict me.” “But sire, I am sweating and the juice you packed is boiling as though it were on a stove top.” “Young progeny, will you allow me none of long-driving’s natural silences? If you are warm, remove your jacket and your gloves and trim your beard. And if you are to contradict me again I will be forced to contact Authority Protection Services.” “That will not be necessary,” I replied, “your generous responses are [...]

An Invitation (Horace’s Ode i.20) Cheap wine, Maecenas! You’ll drink cheap wine from cheap cups, our local Sabine swill. I pitched the Grecian jar myself, and filled it with wine I made. I laid it in my cellar that day when you entered your theater after a long sickness. Yes, Maecenas, the people saw you and cheered and the echoes filled Rome, your Tiber trembled and the Vatican hills shook. Yes, Maecenas, it’s true–you’ve drank the crushed grapes of Calenia and Caecuba. You’ve had Falernia and Formia–better wine than my cups should ever dirty. ______________________________________________ Micah Towery‘s poetry and translations appear in magazines like Cimarron Review, Paterson Literary Review, Ragazine.cc, and , and an interview with Tom Sleigh will be appearing in an issue of The Writer’s Chronicle soon. He teaches at Trinity Western University and tweets . In past lives he was a baker, church organist, and Coca-Cola delivery [...]

There are many poets who enjoy disliking William Carlos Williams. He wrote poems that seem distinguished only by their adherence to the tossed off. They make no major claims. They seem jotted off. So why study the man at all? First, it is hard to see Williams because he is everywhere, in all the schools of American poetry. He took the English conversational lyric as invented by Coleridge and developed by Wordsworth and turned it toward American speech patterns: OK, sure–the sense of a self consciously casual utterance, language that was wrought from a busy life and ranged between the phatic, the cranky, the ecstatic, the overt, and the obvious. But we must pause at the word obvious. Stating the obvious is not easy. Human beings tend to mistake mystification for intelligence. Abstractions appeal to us. We forget that even “chicken” is an abstraction. It is a word for an [...]

This entry is part of a series, On Kate Durbin» E! Entertainment By Kate Durbin Insert/Blanc Press, 2012 Full color 40 p. chapbook $12.00 If Hedda Hopper had been reincarnated into a bag lady forced to stuff her own newspaper columns into her clothes for warmth, the wyrd outer hummings of her cycle toward rebirth might well have been echoed in Kate Durbin’s E! Entertainment. The 40 page deconstruction, namesake of the television network and interspersed with lurid screenshots, is prose-poetry fed less by muses than by an alternative kind of green energy powered by their garbage: “recording angel” concept gone Murdoch wiretap, courtroom stenography as art that fluctuates between high and low like designer prescription drug-induced mood swings. The book opens with an episode (presented as script-summary) from reality TV’s The Hills. The shot (recognizable and iconic in renditions from Wilder to Lynch) rises over the narrative like a [...]

American Typewriter Dusk happened again.……………….I’ve dragged the family to the park……………………………….retaining pond to follow the marvelous…………….Russian satellite across the sky.………………………….They were surprised I think………………………………………at my insistence. The hidden part………………………..of what I want is a night insect…………………………that you can see in shafts of streetlight.………………By this light I have misidentified………………….woodland creatures from three phyla.……………………..Here in the doldrums I stayed in……………………………….on Halloween. Read Faust………………………………picked fights with phantom critics………………..the television the birds.………………………………..Who can blame me? The birds………………………………..the television. All the cities…………………………….I’ve left behind. __________________________________________ Mary McHugh’s poems and reviews have appeared in Copper Nickel, and Smartish Pace, and Matterhorn. She teaches English at Aims College, and she lives and writes in Fort Collins, Colorado with her husband and their tabby cat.

_____________________________________________________________________ Jono Tosch is a poet, artist, non-fiction writer and fermentation enthusiast who lives in Northampton, MA. Last summer he took his blog, Oilchanges: the anti food blog food blog, to New Mexico on a reader-supported X-Country road trip. You can find his poems and whatnot by googling his name.