Slipstream Issue 37    Slipstream Issue 37
         2017      $10.00      96 pages      "The Road" Theme

Home Page     New Releases     Poetry Chapbook Contest     Back Issues     Video
Poets featured in this Issue:

Claire T. Feild, Tony Magistrale, Trevor Tingle, Judson Evans, Miranda Haney, Peter Marcus, Judith Roney, Belinda Subraman, Suzanne Iuppa, Michael Salcman, Robert Beveridge, Matt Zambito, Rikki Santer, Jeff Alfier, William Godbey, Michael Vander Does, David Denny, Jennifer Weber, Michael David Roberts, Judi Rypma, Dennis Maloney, Devon Balwit, Holly Day, Carl Boon, Gail DiMaggio, John Stupp, Nick Conrad, Willam C. Blome, Grant Clauser, Ed Taylor, Stephen Roger Powers, Nicole Santalucia, David Chorlton, Charles Rammelkamp, Riley Ward, Casey Clague, Doug South, Lana Dean Highfill, Seth Garcia, Richard O'Brien, Justin Hyde, Carol A. Amato, Armin Tolentino, Anna Monardo, Jim Zola, Patricia Fargnoli, Allen C. Jones, K.D. Rose, Mike Jurkovic, Alan Catlin, Donna Davis, Sharon Lask Munson, Joan E. Bauer, Matthew W. Schmeer, John Schneider, Helga Kidder, Frank J Dunbar, Kennth Feltges, Serena Fusek, Mather Schneider, Robert Cooperman, Stephanie Botelho, Rebekah Keaton, Joe Cottonwood, Dan Jacoby, Dianalee Velie, Alexis Rhone Fancher, Sara Fetherolf, Kathleen Gunton, Diane Martin, and others.

Cover Artist: Ted Vasin
Ted Vasin is a San Francisco-based artist who works in painting and sound. His work attacks the phenomenon of the psychological spectrum and its possibilities of expansion and transcendence. On the canvas a collision of hyper-realism and technologically produced abstractions proposes an intersection where the organic self and the physical world must come to terms. Visit Ted's website at:


Sample Poems from Issue 37

Teachable Moment  by Tony Magistrale
Oasis  by William Godbey
I Am Not Your Future, Mapped  by Jennifer Weber
Roadside Fantasies  by Doug South

Teachable Moment
by Tony Magistrale

That first glorious
convertible-worthy, top-down day
my buddy and I pull up
alongside a yellow bus
packed with high school students
on their journey home. At a red light
everyone inside
rushes to our side of the bus,
mud-streaked half windows descend, comments fly:
Way cool car, Dudes. You guys are awesome,
can we get a ride? I catch the eye of one kid
sitting alone
in the back next to a window. Heís
the only one not glad to make our acquaintance,
wrinkling his face in a grimace of displeasure.
Before the light changes,
my buddy offers some ancient advice: Stay in school;
youíll be cruising in your own car with the top down.
The kid in the back
sticks up his middle finger
to remind us
high schoolís always a prison
especially on fine spring afternoons.

© 2017 Tony Magistrale

Back to top

by William Godbey

Off the I-40, someway between Barstow and Havasu
Where the dust will sit under fingertips and dance in the back of throats
There is the statue
No hue to its figure and no architect to claim it
With an arm clutching the baby to its chest
The other arm extended out, palm stretching up
Brambles lace through the feet, carving unplanned seams in the shade
Its eyes, its eyes are blank
The last statue for miles
Where the dust looms over the landscape
But still they flock to it
They will crawl to it
Clutching their beads and their gin and their poker chips and their bones
With knees as bruised as their hearts
Thumping the ground as if doing so will turn the statue gold
Shuddering in awe as they feel their guilt perish
Whimpering with ecstasy to find their journey worthwhile
Dancing figure eights in the dirt while triumph erupts from the back of their throats
Their eyes, their eyes are foolish
They canít see the dust on its fingertips
They canít see the cracks in its frame
They canít see the dust laughing

© 2017 William Godbey

Back to top

I Am Not Your Future, Mapped
by Jennifer Weber

On stormy nights you conquer the gap
between our bodies and your fingers

measure the distance between my hip
and knee. When I turn away you plot

new adventures into the valleys of
my collarbones. Acknowledging the ends

of my fingertips, exploring all sides
of my scalp, you think youíve reached

my edges. But I am not so easily contained
or carried. The pattern of my veins

will not reveal a shortcut. Freckles on
my cheek do not suggest an easier path.

Cast off the gridlines youíve imagined
across my body, the mile markers

you dropped to remember your way back
to my heart. I am not a map to flatten

and read with a compass rose. I spin, a solitary
weather vane. You cannot rely on my wind.

© 2017 Jennifer Weber

Back to top

Roadside Fantasies
by Doug South

You like the way she touches
everything with her mouth, licks
the salt on your shoulder, rips
a plastic bag with her teeth, catches
snowflakes on her tongue, bites
her nails, nibbles on babiesí fingertips.

But none of that matters. Itís all
voyeuristic fantasy, memories
of interactions that never happened,
never will.

Youíre on a fuel break at a pit stop
beside a highway of strangers
heading to different destinations.
Alone on a motorcycle with no
radio, no companion, your eyes
rest on whoever crosses your line
of sight, contemplate this random,
almost meeting, reinvent the un-
remarkable as a means to pass the time.

© 2017 Doug South

Back to top