The Money Game by Andrew Peterson
Sam Vaknin on economics as a field of psychology
Brandon Chan-Yung and Louise Norlie on the Postmodernist as posthuman
Hogeye Bill reviews Naomi Klein's book, The Shock Doctrine
On the Islands with Norbu Rinpoche: Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Two Poems by Elizabeth P. Glixman
Two Poems by John Oliver Hodges
Two Poems by Ellaraine Lockie
Three Poems by M. Blake
Three Poems by Justin Hyde
Three Poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Three Poems by Felino Soriano
Three Poems by john e
A Third of Methuselah: Fiction by Tim Millas
A Letter from Lotonym: Fiction by Ryan Undeen
Golden Egg: Fiction by Durenda
Sherlock Holmes and Al Capone Search through Time and Genre for Hannibal Lecter: Fiction by Brad Johnson
scarecrows: Fiction by J. A. Tyler
Chapters Four through Six of sLAsH by Bill Berry
Gabriel Ricard reviews Tatterdemalion and interviews the author, Ray Succre
Maybe: a short film by Cecelia Chapman
Three Songs by Al's Place Bluegrass Band
Eight Paintings by Randy Thurman
Nine Collages by Randel Plowman

Goodreads

del.icio.us

I had four 20 dollar
bills rolled up in the folds of
my stomach. I had five 10
dollar bills under the folds
just below my left arm. I
had two 5 dollars bills tucked
right under my toupee. They
are all gone now. But what I
find most troubling is who took
the seven 1 dollar bills
I had hidden up my crack?
I do not believe in banks,
wallets, or mattresses. Banks
get robbed, wallets get picked, and
mattresses catch fire. I think
the staff in the hospital
cleaned me out when I fainted
in the emergency room.
I get light-headed sometimes.
Being out in the streets, the
sun sometimes beats on me like
a prize fighter. I was put
in a hospital gown. My
shirt was taken from my back.
My pants, underwear, and socks
were taken to the laundry,
where they disappeared
is what I was told. I wonder if
they had to separate the
folds on my stomach, my back,
and under my arms. I ask
what sick bastard checked in my
crack for the seven bills of
just 1 dollar? A hundred
and seven dollars lost to the
workers in the hospital.
If they had a party, I
was not invited. I was left
with only the shirt that fits
snugly on my body. Who
can I complain to when I'm
the one diagnosed with the
mental capacity of
a man who cannot provide
for his basic needs for life
like food, clothes, or shelter?

I did not know
why I was mad
and taking it
out on the wrong
people. I was
tired of my home
life. I was tired
of hating the
people who loved
me. I was tired
of not having
money. My chest
and my stomach
hurt all the time.
I hurt people
and I did not
remember what
I did to them.
I tried to hold
my anger in
check. I tried not
to fight with those
around me. I
was depressed for
being held in
places against
my will. That's just
a little bit
of history.
I felt like I
was being raped
in my sleep. I
trusted no one.
I feel better
now because I
have not argued
with anyone
in a long time.
I have not been
provoked at all.

I made the devil
insecure
about his looks.

He cut his tail off
and trimmed his
nails and goatee.

Now the devil speaks
to me. He
wants to teach me

a lesson. He bugs
me when I
sleep, when I eat,

and when I'm working.
I want to
see a doctor

or a priest, who can
put an end
to the voice of

the devil. I want
God to work
a miracle.

I need God's power
to drive the
devil's voice out

of my head. I will
lead a good
life in return.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, 40, was born in Cuernavaca, Morelos (Mexico), and has lived in Los Angeles County since age 7. He works in the mental health field. His poems in English and Spanish have appeared in The American Dissident, The Blue Collar Review, Pemmican Press, and Struggle Magazine. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, is from Pygmy Forest Press.