Ross Vassilev, Editor. Submissions are now closed. Thank you to all contributors over the past 2 years; it’s been great reading everyone’s stuff. All the archives will stay up here at AM 2.0

and also here at

and here at

and here at

for everyone to read whenever they want. Once again, thanks to all readers and poets alike.

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Sedition Art Contest

A sweet art contest with prizes for any antiwar “radical” who’s interested:

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updated links

I just updated the links section, resurrecting many “dead” zines using the Internet Archive: 🙂

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by Anita McQueen

The streets
my only escape

nonchalant walk
at first
then running
faces in windows
yellow eyes
hidden hands

a crescent moon
lighting a dancing crowd
where the new world begins.

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Memorial Day 2010

(for Heather)

I’ve never understood the rhetoric of Memorial Day
and the honoring of those heroes who
gave their lives for our country.
Honor the dead, by all means yes, but
please spare me the propaganda
about how they gave their lives for freedom.
Terror and carnage know naught
of lofty ideals.

In my experience, it was rare indeed for
someone to give his life willingly, and
that was usually for comrades, not country.
Most of our hallowed dead
had their lives wrenched from them,
screaming with rage
as they convulsed in agony,
desperate to staunch life’s ebbing,
youthful longings and
dreams of love
forever in abeyance.

Today, Memorial Day 2010,
I learned that a friend
just lost her nineteen-year-old brother,
killed in Afghanistan.

Today, Memorial Day 2010,
I am reminded of what
Joseph Stalin once said,
“One death is a tragedy;
one million is a statistic.”

To truly observe Memorial Day,
we need to acknowledge the barbarism of
sending our nineteen-year-old sons and daughters
into harm’s way,
regardless the cause.

To truly observe Memorial Day,
we need to embrace tragedy, not
by the one, but by the million.

by Paul Hellweg

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by Jay Passer

I roam the streets
in need of a fix.
her body is the city,
bridges closed,
bus lines clotted,
power out.
I’m paranoid,
delusional, deviant,
unintelligible, derelict,
criminal, shabby,
and lost.
she is a world paved over with grit.
I am a basketball court
at the corner
of a block
at 2 o’clock in the morning.
I roam the
streets of the
city in the
rain in

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The Biggest Loser

by Don McIver

Videos stream the oil dumping from a pipe
5000 feet below the ocean surface,
and the brown,
goopy, molasses like substance
is scooped up in a reporters hand
from the side of a boat.
Interviews are granted,
political observations,
independent investigations,
destroyed fisheries and marshlands,
birds coated in oil,

A black cast iron skillet
warms on an electric stove:
water beads then steams off
as I drop a chunk of butter
on the surface.
The butter melts and becomes what it is: fat,

Tabloids announce
this diet caused this:
Glossy prints, before and after,
inches gone,
belt sizes shrunk,
photographic evidence
of the trimming of fat,

I look at my oversized gut
and see the molecules and globules of fat
just below the surface of my skin.
Oversized cells
storing fat for some explosion of energy
that my body doesn’t use anymore
so it sits there,
obstructs my view.

A bear pokes at a raspberry bush,
digs grubs from a downed tree,
scoops a live fish from a riverbed,
and fattens,
layer upon layer
as it stumbles through summer
towards hibernation,
slowly burning the fat,
it stored for the winter.

My grandfather melted tallow
and string together to make candles,
read by candlelight into the small hours of the morning,
finally blowing the flame out,
flame that survived by burning oil,

A high school kid,
crawls under my car
and unwinds a nut
as the black oil,
from the engine drops into a bucket.

I look at the cracked skin on my heel,
dry, the skin flakes away
as I rub fat,
oil into it to keep it from flaking more.

A husband looks at his new bride
on a beach towel on South Padre.
She turns over and asks that he rub oil,
fat into her skin.

A poet puts a blank disc into his computer,
clicks on plastic keys
and listens to the fan rev up
as the tracks are burned onto the disc.
He takes the small plastic circle
and spins it around his finger.
It is smooth to the touch,
hardened oil,

We live in a house that is
powered by fat.
Drive to work in a car that is
powered by fat,
sit behind a computer screen that is
powered by fat,
made out of plastic that is
made by fat.
We are fat.
Fat executives write press releases
and brag about how the Deepwater Horizon
was the new record holder,
a rig capable of drilling a hole
25,000 feet below the ocean’s surface
making its owners a lot of fat cash.
Then something

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Nato kills 100 civilians in Libya raids

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