Poetry: How to Fix a Monet After Someone Punches It

Issue 1.2

by Howie Good

You can see Syria from here,
fish in a dead landscape,
starry nights and astronauts,
the soft edges of time.

What year is it?
Don’t you think it’s time for love?
Everything else has failed.

Fuck it, I’m high.
Let’s walk to the middle of the ocean.

White roses sing and sing.

Assembled from titles of artworks by Alma Thomas, Hema Upadyay, Mark Bradford, and Kung Me.

Howie Good co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. His most recent collection of poetry is A Ghost Sings, A Door Opens (2016) from Another New Calligraphy.

Poetry: Escape Artist

Issue 1.2

by Howie Good

I liked to walk around with a friend and a granola bar, especially when I was wasted, my mind free of the tedium of this size 71/2 head. Understand? Ambulances roamed the roads in anticipation of frequent car accidents. Canaries were there, and there were lemon trees, and they brought smallpox and hundreds of words, none of which rhymed. The sky got so dark sometimes that shadows from all over the world seemed to appear out of nowhere and then leave me with eyes engorged with blood. Today yet another woman said the darkness reached up her skirt. Point me to the doorway to the river. I just want to sit and play guitar to the goldfish.

Howie Good co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. His most recent collection of poetry is A Ghost Sings, A Door Opens (2016) from Another New Calligraphy.

Poetry: Vroom

Issue 1.2

by Howie Good


Something, I don’t know what, wakes me. My head feels weirdly organized, like a city policed by mobs. Ah, the absurdity of having a fixed bedtime! “How long did I nap?” I ask Mollie, whose hair looks a radioactive shade of red in this light. She doesn’t answer, just continues texting. Maybe I should calm down. A soul weighs, on average, 21 grams. How much does a ghost weigh?


The sad old men who play accordion on the street were staring at the sky. Only then did I notice that another layer of the atmosphere was missing. That night, rain fell, interspersed with neon words: “glaze,” “thread,” “murmur.” The result was hypnotic. “What a town,” I said, “what a town.” But who spoke for all the dying animals? It wasn’t like every house had a two-cow garage.


The last great American hero killed himself in a bathtub surrounded by 12 pairs of children’s shoes. Now a man who looks something like him is hitting on a skeptical blonde. “If you want to study the disease,” he is saying, “you must live in the swamp.” As he spoke, strange black flowers burst open overhead. Back there behind the sun, all ideas fall apart, and dreams tell the future, and everyone is too drunk to fuck.


Howie Good co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. His most recent collection of poetry is A Ghost Sings, A Door Opens (2016) from Another New Calligraphy.

Poetry: Fantasizing in Memoriam With Nancy D. (1942 – 2012)

Issue 1.2

by William C. Blome

I forget how much she could make a collar itch,
and I slipped her an invitation to join me watching shadows
jumping rafters in the bunkhouse, though in practically zero
time, we took off our boots and socks and stretched out to edit
herky-jerky pictures of her coming out of loud blue water
at the country club pool and soon losing her swimsuit top
to an aluminum-siding huckster. I can’t detour bragging about
her paint-chip green eyes and tits that pushed out to the county
line, though in a heavy voice she assured me “being semi-naked
among the rich and poor is almost never a problem,” and so
we looked at and listened to her engage the huckster
in pornographic conversation about Prince Souphanouvong
and his two worthless brothers, and the Charles-Atlas-strong
need for better roads in and out of Vientiane, in and out of all
of Laos, for that matter. O I sympathize with the scratched-up
salesman as he tried mightily to widen the discourse to include
bits-o-banter about which recent years had produced
swell vintages in far-off, well-known Burgundy, but of course,
it really didn’t have to be me, anyone could have seen Nancy
stay stubborn in her radical and happy way and heard her
refuse to let the tin man consider “any year later than 1954
and the glory months of Panmunjom and Dien Bien Phu.”

William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC and is a Master’s graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has appeared in Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.

Fanfics and Message Boards as Modes of Writing

I wrote this article two years ago, but in the September 2016 edition of The Writer’s Chronicle, I was comforted by the realization that I’m not alone. I’m not the only person to find comfort in writing fanfiction (and roleplaying on message boards). What I experienced as an adolescent was not a singular occurrence. I want to advocate for the participation in these activities, because not everyone gets the opportunity to set aside their life to become a writer. However, everyone should have the ability to explore the benefits of writing and collaboration, and we should be allowed to let our imaginations work beyond the consumer norm.

I am aware of how silly it sounds to say that posting writing online or writing romance fanfiction about my favorite characters has made me a better writer. After all, E. L. James wrote Fifty Shades of Grey as a fanfic based off of the Twilight series, and you’d be pressed to find many literary scholars who advocate for James as a “good” writer.

The truth is, most of the fanfics we write should never see the light of day. But that doesn’t mean that writing them isn’t fundamental to our development. The ability to portray other people’s characters is an excellent way to exercise your writing skills.

I started out my writing career as a hopeful prepubescent child with no concept of literature other than what I had read in books. A friend of mine and I decided that the stories we read had more potential than what was on the page, and we began what I consider to be the most essential fuel to my fire: roleplaying. At recess, we would sit and write a line each of the story to each other, often focusing on one or two characters that we wanted to portray from our favorite stories. That grew into a story of our own, and from that, we discovered message boards. (Well, she discovered it, and I quickly followed.)

I’m no longer part of the community, but message boards (forums) used to be for those wanting to come together to write a collective story. The websites were usually laid out by locations within the story; you could post a message wherever your particular character was. Most often, you were asked to write in third person limited, past tense, and to only portray the character that you have chosen. (There were of course variations of this.) Your character operated within this realm of locations and around other members participating in the whole plot. All of this is the creative writing past-time called roleplaying.

When I was roleplaying on message boards, I was writing thousands of words a day. Anyone who writes knows that it’s difficult sometimes to even churn out 100 good, polished words of story in one day. But because other people were contributing to the plot and the story, because I was forced to think fast in situations I had only some control over, and because I was obligated to respond to a post I had become a part of, I was writing like the world was going to end tomorrow. And I never had more muse than during this period of my life.

By time the end of high school came around, I no longer had free time to spend writing on message boards. My inspiration suffered, among many other things that suffer when you learn to become a functioning adult. I almost never wrote, and I was miserable. I asked myself, what happened to the fire of my youth? I wasn’t very old. Why was the flame of my inspiration burning out so soon? (So very dramatic.)

I realized that I wasn’t feeding my creative soul anymore. And yes, I know that also sounds ridiculous. But I wasn’t. I was limiting myself to my homework and my jobs. I wasn’t allowing my mind to flow free anymore, and I didn’t have an outlet where I could get the feedback I needed.

So that’s just it: I needed feedback. I needed a community of writers who were as dedicated to the craft as I was, and I’d had that in part with my roleplaying community.

It was time to get serious about my writing. And that’s where Devise Literary came from. By writing about writing, reaching out to the writing community, and providing an outlet for other writers to share their opinions and allow their minds to grow, I have opened the flood gates back up.

Maybe Faulkner didn’t have the internet at his disposal to reach out to other writers. But we do, and I intend to take full advantage of it.

Message boards, fanfics, and blogs were absolutely necessary for me to become a more disciplined and prolific writer. In some ways, I miss being part of that community. But at the same time, I’ve moved on to a group of intelligent colleagues who push me to be worthy of your audience.

Image Copyrighted by Moyan Brenn