Alright, I admit some of it. This may not be the most massaged issue. I may have gotten weighleighed by some west-coast highway nymphs, seduced by a few big breakfasts, digested one or two under-maintained outhouses and maybe, just maybe, I lost track of time. Uh oh and oh well, but thank my swim shorts we have such a dependable team. What I do not admit is any kind of dip in quality, as previously reported by a news outlet that shall-not-be-named. Journalists are scummy boys who take the news way too seriously. Report on fiction, damnit! This issue is magnificent! But also maybe a little messy, un-beautiful, floppy, buoyant only by blowing, slightly witty and all around worrying. I wouldn’t have it any other way! Hail Land Ark Lit Mag! Hail!

As I alluded to earlier, I am currently sharing the road with the roadkill as I am on my way to absolutely nowhere. I have zero destination. No expectations. I shall turn around when I feel like it. Isn’t that a blessing? Big one! And while I am here I will get a little more behind. But I just had to get away from the rat race of sitting in my apartment. Editor’s aren’t meant to be caged. We are vagabonds by nature, designed for long distance travel and to passively aggressively critique the grammar on traffic signs. 

Anyhoo, let’s drive over to Content City, USA, where you will find poetry about arms, legs, bellies and banana slugs, poetry about an awkward date with the absence of matter, and poetry about something I am not sure what it means to have your “bread door hanging open” but I certainly aim to find out. Then there’s a Divisionist and a Wackadoodleist, a lunch menu and a bus schedule, and a historical footnote: all communists are Mets fans. 

Proletarians of all countries, read esoteric poetry! 

– Ed.