ISSN 1556-4975


Since 1998, a journal for poetry, criticism, reviews, stories and essays edited by Ricardo Nirenberg.


Collaborative poems by Thomas Fink and Maya Diablo Mason.




Oh, what your mother looks like. My shadow
was walking faster than me. The
zip code was in disrepute. Somebody had to
fix it, and I wonder who
they were: the ones doing all those

beautiful things for those who had been
stood up or misappropriated.
They kept filling the air with
wads of words, which don’t have
to be original—but authentic: a gray bus

that takes you to a change
of sheen. Cures more lives than death.
We have it now, don’t we? And we can stay
home in the middle of it. Do
I take all the girls there?






Don’t push anything with this girl. 
She’s the Senior Vice President of blah blah blah blah.
She’s so busy and so snobby, but she loves me.
This angelic type of—
happy, smiling.

I don’t think her teeth are yellow.
Everyone’s like—
where are you going this weekend?

My dollhouse happens to be a Colonial.
I’m moving Saturday.





Trees grow birds.
The zoo is rent-  
free for the tenants.
Neither hunting nor gathering   
is relevant any
longer; servants      
come around thrice daily  
with free steak tartare
and raw vegetables.

And for nothing,    
they get to witness
our (un)caged  
alien actions.






Who turned off the moon?
You have that look
of concentration,
and you’re not doing

The Surgeon General
doesn’t condone this.
Everyone walks
through the same air,
so why can’t
they swim in
the same water?


Read about Thomas Fink and Maya Diablo Mason

Return to Offcourse Index.