You will notice a certain political excess in this issue. The Corpse mirrors the nation. It also mirrors several other nations, including the Editor's own native Romania where a fascist nearly took over the Presidency. Happily, a neo-communist did instead, while in the U.S., the Shrub got away with it. We are not unhappy with the ascension of Dubbaya, because we do great when we have big visible targets painted brightly on the tarmac of satire. We like also the fact that along with Dubbaya a whole slew of right-wing dinosaurs are bound to flash their scales for our Bazooka gum wads. All in all, it's a pretty low-chakra administration: Bush, Dick, Colon. Anything more elevated, folks? So it's no wonder that our writers have discovered that Nixon isn't dead, that Republican rage is concentrated at the tip of a golf club, and that feeding children and the Pentagon simultaneously is going to be no picnic. Outside these pundit red zones, we are up to our usual mix of international high-brow mockery of everything sacred, unabashed pornographic literacy, narrative destructothons, serial plunges into the abyss, pulpit mashing, and many ineffectual protests against the ravages of time and the shredding of Love by machines. Meanwhile, in our personal lives we would like see some cash (buy those mousepads, damn it!) and we are trying to find love with a print publisher who may (this is strictly a rumor, so please keep it hush-hush) bring us back in the form of a thing that you can take to bed, leave in the bathroom, eat cookies on and lend to a friend. If this happens, you, our readers, will be the first to benefit, because we know, don't we, that print is so much softer than pixels. You didn't hear this from me. As usual, our gratitude is extensively owed to the people-angels who for no good reason other than the advancement of letters and their enjoyment of punishing labor, have helped us proof this issue. They are: Tim Dardis (Boulder poet, bike-riding fool), Paris Tirone (Ashland, Oregon, gravity-defying ecrivian), Robin Becker (her Baked Ham is out of this world, but her Prose makes many people blush), Nat Hardy (Canadian scholar involved in recent hockey mishap playing with swamp team), and Jeff Barnosky (a complex man who tries for Simplicity in Verse). Otherwise, we live within a swirl of rumors and innuendos that would make the second generation of New York poets chuckle with weary recognition. See you at the Corpse Cafe!

Go to Our Gang to see pictures of our proofreaders.

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