The Inside-Out Review
Brainwaves
By Sarah Boots
I. Frontal
A sulcus
on the prefrontal cortex,
with its come-hither
crook, reading
like a palm or a thumbprint,
a horoscope or 2-DG
autoradiography:
today is a good day
to take risks.
II. Parietal
Somatosensory snakes a band
across the canyon
of the corpus callosum,
housing its homunculus
who is bending over backwards
to feel
everything there is to be felt,
a particular, sprawling mess,
all hands and mouth, face,
and fingertips
down your spine,
or at least your lateral corticospinal tract.
III. Temporal
The primary auditory cortex,
he told you,
is organized tonotopically,
and you taste the word
with its too too tos
and its popping top,
and you tilt
your head to listen
as the world snaps out sounds
like a ligand-gated ion channel,
calcium ion influx and fire,
fire fire.
IV. Occipital
Two yellow
sweeping searchlights
criss-cross the cold air
and lightning
through the thalamus to meet,
contralateral,
ipsilateral,
through the fusiform face area
(or is it the flexible fusiform area?)
like green and red fireworks
against the bluest
blue sky
your striate cortex has ever seen.
​Sarah Boots has wanted to be either a doctor or a poet for a very long time, and has only recently realized that she might as well try to be both. She currently works as a research intern in Chicago, when she is not spending all of her time reading.
Eyes closed on an airplane,
you could just as easily not be
you—that white noise,
​
the jostling of the clouds below
could be anything—could be
a black hole, a stone in a dirt road,
​
could be waves against a boat,
an earthquake, cradle rocking:
you could be anywhere.
​
That baby wailing
could be anyone, could be yours
for all you know in your half-sleep
​
where your memories
feel farther away than the patchwork
picked-out farms down on the ground,
​
long-lost like lines on a mistaken map,
lines that might be there or might
not if you opened your eyes,
​
if you bothered to wake up, pick up
the long dull thread of daily life,
the gentle nudge of time
​
like a low-slung river. Hip-deep,
you wade through, fingertips
scratching the glassy surface:
​
it feels like chance
that you move forwards
and not back.
Eyes Closed
By Sarah Boots
​Sarah Boots has wanted to be either a doctor or a poet for a very long time, and has only recently realized that she might as well try to be both. She currently works as a research intern in Chicago, when she is not spending all of her time reading.
iHandwash
By iDrew
open pump
in an anti-clockwise direction
apply to wet hands
avoid contact with eyes
natural benefit
replenish and protect
smoothes sensitive skin
lather lather lather
​
​pro-vitamin B5
​sodium hydroxymethylglycinate
gentle hand cleansing combined
aromatic ingredients
tocopheryl acetate
lather lather lather
​
​natural ingredients
no added perfume or colour
borage seed oil
sodium laureth sulfate
health and beauty vitamin E
sodium lauryl sulfate
accantia
solihull
lather lather lather​
​
simple
​
​
​
Writing under the name of iDrew to co-ordinate with her titles, Essex girl Drew has previously been published in various magazines both on-line and in print. She enjoys shopping, boys, and clubs but claims these are all merely research for her writing. She is also one of the founding members of the Clueless Collective and can be found at: www.cluelesscollective.co.uk
CARDIOMYOPATHY
By Howie Good
I feel like an empty gray glove.
Use gentle strokes with a sharp razor, she says.
I’ll be found, perhaps years later,
wandering the streets wearing only one shoe.
​
​
​
​Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has a number of chapbooks forthcoming, including Elephant Gun from Dog on a Chain Press and Strange Roads from Puddle of Sky Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. He blogs at http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com and can be reached at goodh51@gmail.com.
BLACK MILK
By Howie Good
​Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has a number of chapbooks forthcoming, including Elephant Gun from Dog on a Chain Press and Strange Roads from Puddle of Sky Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. He blogs at http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com and can be reached at goodh51@gmail.com.
1
I wore my funeral suit. The only thing I taught him, the old man said, was how to drink a fifth a day. A schoolgirl laughed behind her hand as my shoes filled up with milk and blood.
​
2
The great windows of the cathedral were missing their stained glass. Babushkas ran about, pulling fire alarms. This wasn’t something I’d experienced before.
​
3
There was a mountain of twisted corpses, their eyes wide open, their throats outstretched in accusation. The firing squad stood off to one side. A dog dozed amid indecorous hints of daybreak.
THE MIRÓ COAT
By M.V. Montgomery
I was with a small group at the art gallery, standing outside in line in the cold near a young woman who had clearly never visited there before. She asked about the admission price to the Surrealist exhibit, and when I told her, she almost wilted. Until she squinted closer at the sign and said, Miró? Joan Miró? I think I have a coat by her. Really? I answered, giving her a doubtful look, knowing that Miró was a he, and his palate of colors so intense that any coat must surely be blinding. Do you think one of these rich people would like to buy it? the woman asked. I’ll tell my roommate to bring it—she likes to borrow it sometimes. She disappeared from the line for a time while I dutifully saved her place. Then she returned and announced, She’s bringing it!, and began excitedly working the crowd to find anyone interested in owning the Miró coat.
​M.V. Montgomery is a professor at Life University in Atlanta. His latest work is a collection of poetry and experimental fiction to be released soon through Ephemera Publishing, titled The Island of Charles Foster Kane.
Cut Your Ball In Half
​​​I see a web site advertisement
Cut Your Ball In Half!
​
what?
I put on my reading glasses
​
now I see
Cut Your Bill In Half!
​
I remove my reading glasses
a close call
By Suchoon Mo
​Suchoon Mo is a Korean War veteran and a retired academic living in the semiarid part of Colorado. His poems and music compositions appeared in a number of literary and cultural publications. His recent poetry chap book, Frog Mantra, has been published by Accents Publishing of Lexington, Kentucky.