Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Comics by Noah Van Sciver -- Click on each to view!

Noah Van Sciver is an underground cartoonist.
He currently lives in Denver Colorado.
And he is the Walrus.

Sophie by Sam Virzi

I have this pain in my gut whenever something like this happens and it happens pretty regularly that my existence causes this pain in my guts and this pain in my guts is a direct symptom of some kind of angst which sprouts up every time all existence grinds and strains agaisnt itself and my self ends up burning because of that intense and bitter and anguished burn of hands rubbing hands awkwardly of people doing things that people don't normlly do and I call this burn a burn but really it's more of a thing that happens between two people tht don't know each other and want deearly to know eaach other but lack the balls or the courage of self to get to know one another because of things like appointments and dates and demands of meeting people, other people, all the other people as they demand to be met, on red park benches, in orange trenchcoats, what a hateful color that is, don't confuse the two, and in this tension and stress and shuck and jive of bleeding eyeballs, guts cllenched in agony and wonderment and self-condemnation, something always escapes it which defies escaping but escapes because of what it is and what must, as nature demands, escape: something half-there and half-white, some ghost of what I could become, trails out from the roof of my mouth and into the air and the sky swallows it, gulp, says the sky, as it gets drunk off the corpse of my immortal soul.
And it's usually in response to anything, it's never like a desensitivisation to any kind of drug, it's never a direct consequence or a feature of an unavoidable process that really pisses me off about this response about the painful part of existence, which is existence- there's always a trigger, there's something in the world that's too sharp that won't kindly turn its edge away from you just because it knows you can be cut- there's always a cruelty in the way leaves change too quickly, the way wallets empty themselves, circumstantial but undeniably there to fuck you up, it's always just a trip, stutter, hiccupping happenstance which would probably, you know, happen if you weren't there to be put in agony but still it's a bit of a coincidence that you only really notice its symptoms when the causes of such symptoms happen within you & among you like a photonegative of the kingdom of God, Eden in a mirror, place where your mind goes & it can't do anything but ask WHY of everything that leaves a footprint on it- WHY are her eyes blue and WHY are mine brown, WHY do people smile, WHY God, WHY build such an enormous cathedral & paint it brown with bricks, WHY follow & lead & be lead to the same place, & WHY There.
Which is a roundabout way of explaining to you why, exactly, I didn't look into your eyes as we passed each other on the street this morning, because there's also a reaction that happens when something that used to ignite fires refuses to ignite a new fire, or when something sharp no longer cuts, or when somebody can't kiss the way they used to, or when my lips can't whisper the right kinds of poetry, or when they startle your sleeping, quiet, your mind at rest, which is hideous, and our eyes are hideous together, which forces me to believe they're beautiful apart, and this is all just a way of naming something disgusting to make it seem less so, even though the word "disgusting" is, itself, a disguise, in and of itself; it's all because I don't want to see my ghost in your eyes, and because you would see yours in mine, and acknowledging the shell of what we had & made, even for a moment, it would mean we'd have to move back into that shell, and die together like squashed, overgrown, adolescent hermit crabs.
I'll forgive you if you forgive me.
___ _____

Sam Virzi is a senior in high school. He'd like to thank his family and friends for their endless support.

Poetry by Ray Succre

July 1979

Summer afternoon and the paper

wasps druzzing near the porch.

Playing the red truck across sidewalk,

pushing it hauling stones, debris.

Listening to Santana from the lawn,

FM radio alarm, old, given to kids.

Smell of baking yards and mowers.

Grass imprints on knees and legs.

Hovering insects and bombination;

spinning hymenopters aflare past an ear.

The songs and then

the lightning in a wrist.


Of blackened marble eyes in the strepped,

twitting heads of birds,

of ants in cue-balls, corner-pocketing bits

of debris to store in a hill,

of feeling for engines, smoke blue

and the rotor striking lawn,

of ladyfingers in wasp nests, blastcaps

in down pillows, gasoline in floodlights,

of water pouring clean from the ribs

of a ghost in the Christ of Nazareth,

of pigs tined beneath ears and hind-leg hung

to cause the bacon, ham and else exist,

of hospital myths, and shrubbery ticks,

and woodboar teeth, and of a woman

leashed to another buried in dog hair,

come the details of my kind.

Of each material, they stray by minute.

Of their own volition, they are scale-sized.

The Philipino Woman

One candle-armed woman shelling Ostrea

at the bench, and razor clams after sleepwalking

noon. The oysters turn as they lift,

then the jab, twist, snap, shuck,

from the bench.

She owns a schedule of tides in her own,

knows them low for high,

and all a cause of moon's place,

and even red tide from this place.

The two brown men come and spray

down the bench, and the thin, metal shucks

and bowls, soak the floor with a cloth hose lake.

They drain the flood by a draw at center dock,

for wait of its sitting dry by air,

and the woman sits in the puddle wood,

woman with gashed rough hands spent

long at the pry.


The aborted notion of authority,

the accurate wetness of violence—

in these introverted men

see frivolity spun into discord,

and an unchecked, edgeless amperage.

The blaring emotion and its stifled check,

short-spoken, tweaked, criminative.

They can find extroversion

tucked into pipes and tipped atop scales,

and hurry the bursting,

offer it registration and field.

It provokes them, moments latched

faster, becoming the most temporary

comprehension of their times.

Bio: Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.

For inquiry, publication history, and information, visit me online:

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

.PROSE OF ARRIVAL. by Robert Klein Engler


--Robert Klein Engler

In life, there are no perfect affections.

--James Merrill

Hard Drive.

Listen. I bring news of the dead. They are not electronic, yet they have arrived. They are abandoned shells, half here, half there. They are the cast off exoskeletons of cicadas, perfect outlines of what used to fit. They are the wind that trails a ribbon. How do I know? I saw them. One lost his foot in the middle of the road, the rest of him was ten feet away, face down on a decal of blood. Other bodies were piled like kindling wood by the door, waiting to be used in death as they were used in life.

Listen. There is a story about how the dead are raised, but right now, these words only raise memory. Read the data from the drive, then stop. In the newer models, the heads park automatically. In revolutions, heads roll. Caught up in it, the executioner asks, "Paper or plastic?" No geek reboots his cut. The green light says its on. Love illuminates and so does loneliness when it burns. It tastes like earth. At first you call it milk. Listen, there is spinning and spinning and spinning as currents stream across the screen of the world, then, clunk. It stops.

Eeny meeni mini mo.
Catch a faggot by the toe.
Eeny meeni mini mo.
Wayne's a faggot. I told ya so.


Don't let the sons of bitches tell you, you can't write. The passive voice is the perfect voice for writers who happen to be gay. I have made here a lovely room of icons, lamps and liquor.

"What do you need?" the clerk at the computer store asks.

Outside his lovely room, the poet answers,"A new hard drive. My old one broke. The memory froze."

"We have one on sale. It's 80 gigabytes. Has space to hold everything!"

"That's too big," the poet, answers. "I only have a 40 gigabyte life."

Oh, dear, bread and beer.
If my mother wasn't married,
I wouldn't be here.


It's foolish to speculate about the qualities of a great poem no one has succeeded in writing. 0100101. Off. On. Off. Off. On. Off. On humid days the leaves have a translucent green. We ate at this patio restaurant among vines and succulents. I was hungry. I ordered meat. The stone horse head between potted flowers collects moss. Pesky flies persist. I googled his picture last week. Get on. Get off. I never imagined his hair would become so white. She must have been hungry, too.

Tiger, tiger burning bright
in the alley of the night.
Tiger, tiger, what is right,
to live with fore or hindsight?

Liquid Crystal Display.

Bite your nails, bitch. The Barbarians are here. They come from the land of books, rowing dragon-headed ships of postmodernism. There was a body, made from this body, but it evaporated. I remember using it to press against another. Look at that man over there, tight as a strap, his buckler shining in nightclub neon. Betcha he'll know what I mean, someday. And if he doesn't, so what? Imagine a monument standing for a long time on a hill. Then it falls over. Air rushes in to take the place stone used to fill. Maybe the air remembers an outline, maybe not.

The gap when lovers part is but a day,
Yet longer now it seem, a century.
What is the name for this? Not gay--
perhaps a golden penitentiary.


They eat pasta shells in mariner sauce off enameled plates. The back door to his apartment is open and the warmth of autumn fills the small kitchen. There is red wine and cherry pie. A candle on the cabinet flickers with the wave of passing forms. It is perfect. So is his smile, and for a second dessert, the sugar of their bodies.

Eeny meeni mini mo.
Catch a faggot by the toe.
Eeny meeni mini mo.
Johnny's a faggot. I told ya so.

On the rug, pulleys in their limbs, lift them to a high and dangerous cliff. He cannot get enough of this salt. There is the danger--the more he drinks, the more thirsty he is. When tectonic plates of earth shift, so do earthquakes rattle cities. When love shifts, there comes a quake, too. He arches his back and jets into the air. Ink is blood to words. He blinks, then looks away. A line of code is missing. There are no moving parts that spin the soul.

Uniform Resource Locator.

He sits three chairs away from me at the college library and yet I still feel his presence like a coat on my shoulders. He wears suede boots. He keeps looking at me. In another world my hands could follow his body to outline completeness. Instead, a girl passes dragging her rolling luggage caught in the river of the world. The night is a row of jeweled windows stretching to the stars. She looks in at us, then walks past, the way a lion on the prowl passes what is already dead.

Girl on the L. Boyish slick.
She's got the slacks. Got the hair.
Chews a toothpick.
Can't see her married to a millionaire.


The young man ahead of me walks with a slight limp. The sole of his left shoe does not flex. That means he wears an artificial limb. He left part of himself from the knee down in Najaf, Iraq. After the explosion his separated flesh got caught up in the treads of a tank. The hamburger that used to be part of a man mixes with crumbs of dust. Thank God for morphine! They give their body to war the way they give it to love. Those arms are still strong and can hold someone, someone who will settle for a part. I bet he thinks, "Who would do a gimp?" Our flesh becomes the coins that buy a share in the World to Come. The beggar limps, the lover, too.

A man bends over the bank of a garbage can.
Does he make a deposit or a withdrawal?
Cancer. Six months to live. Count the crawl.
Might as well party while you can.


What's going down? He has to read Spinoza for his seminar. Shaughnasey want's to suck him dry. On the other side of the world, Jimmy steps on a Vietcong mine and disappears into a puff of blood. Double click another file. His heart has been gnawing on this bone a long time. If he gives up hatred of them, he will live with nothing. He already gave up love. Some men grind down the bone so fine, when they look at rock, tree and cloud, it is only You they see.

Oh, dear, brot und bier.
If your mutter wasn't married
you wouldn't be here.


Alef, Beth, Gimel. Alpha, Beta, Gamma. Sometimes there is not time to make a world with another, except to make it out of poems. A, B, C. He's tired of typing--call it key bored. What's your type? Palatino. Times Roman. Helvetica. The flesh becomes word. ASDFGHJKL. G. GL. GLB. GLBT. GLBTQ. "What's Q for?" Questioning. GLBTQA. "And A, what's A for?" Look and see. In the World to Come, the Answers are before the Questions.

Eeny meeni mini mo.
Catch a faggot by the toe.
Eeny meeni mini mo.
Catch a faggot, then let him go.




Robert Klein Engler
lives in Chicago and New Orleans. He is a writer and artist whose work is sometimes characterized as politically incorrect. Born on the southwest side of Chicago, Robert taught many years at Richard J. Daley College, until he was banned by the chancellor. Robert holds degrees from the University of Illinois at Urbana and the University of Chicago Divinity School. He has received 2 Illinois Arts Council awards for his poetry. Just google his name to find his writing on the Internet.

Michael Morgan writing in the
Comstock Review says that Robert Klein Engler " a poet of the first rank." Another reviewer on disagrees. This reviewer says that Engler's book, A Winter of Words, is trash and that "Engler is a conflicted, sad man who likes to sulk in his book." He then adds, "Mr. Engler you are a Eurocentric nutcase and need to go to a mental hospital."

Larry Winfield of Los Angeles, CA writes that "...I must admit my grievous lack of artistic judgment (sic) in publishing Engler's poetry in past issues of
Liquid Glyph"...Engler is "the poetry scene's version of Dinesh D'Souza."

C. J. Laity, editor of claims, "I too published this hateful bag of slime...little did I know I was helping to create a nazi monster who was bent on destroying me and all my friends...There are literally thousands of poets in Chicago who are better writers than Engler...he is simply a rotten human being that I prefer not to associate with." These comments are echoed by Ramsin Canon's assessment in
Gaper's Block where Canon refers to Engler's writings as a "sublime banquet of bullshit."

Welcome to Outcry NOW!

Welcome to Outcry NOW! This is where we will post the latest and greatest articles, fiction, poetry, art, photography, comics and whatever else is submitted by our contributors. Anything that appears in this section will be released in a series of 2 mega issues per year available by download or CD.

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