I forgot to pack socks. 

Brand new patient walks into a room full of perverts.

“hey, do you smoke?”

no. do you want me to?

“let’s go.”

Hand to railing, 48 hour porch restriction I’m a flight risk.

Dr. Jim warned me, “Stick with the winners”

yet I wound up here with you.

What are you in for? What are YOU in for?

8 weeks. Court ordered? Voluntary.

Ten minutes and one addiction replaces another

as if prescribed.


No shoes on furniture,and no bare feet allowed.

That leaves socks and I forgot to pack but one pair-

fuzzy pink with purple polka dots, from the plane.

I never once wore pink until the baby begged me Mommy please.

It is what girls are supposed to do. We compromised.


Downstairs stuffed animals line the darkened mantlepiece waiting

to be useful. They made the good doctor carry around a stupid koala

until he stopped nervous picking the skin on his chest. You tell me

they are turning us into children, you have to fight it you have to

fight it. Cook comes in for weekly meeting, any requests? Yeah,

a thick steak, jokes the good doctor. Friday? Seriously?

Friday comes and impotent we struggle to cut charred and dry

with bladeless knives.  Gabriel forfeits. Dips

a baby carrot into a tub of hummus. Chew on that! He laughs

high and rolling, as if on cue.



Spring 2008 is Here

Come and visit our newest issue then come back here to leave a comment for the writers and artists. Thanks!


Spring 2008


  • Antonia Clark
  • Brad Johnson
  • Dale McLain
  • Roger Pfingston
  • John Anderson
  • Cristina Baptista
  • Cynthia Brackett-Vincent
  • Michael Brownstein
  • Nuala Ní Chonchúir
  • Alison Eastley
  • Brent Fisk
  • David Fraser
  • Krikor der Hohannesian
  • Amy MacLennan
  • Lisa Markowitz
  • Damon McLaughlin
  • Micki Myers
  • Roger Pfingston
  • Heather Schimel
  • Rachel Stewart
  • Lafayette Wattles

Flash Fiction

  • Richard Rippon
  • Matt Alberhasky
  • Margaret Fieland
  • Robert Johnson
  • Richard Rippon
  • Willie Smith

On Debunking Modern Art

  • Alex Nodopaka


Winter Issue Live

Please click here to jump over to our actual on-line journal…. winter 2007 is ready for visitors!

~ Check out our shiny trophy ~

Shiny new trophy

The Hiss Quarterly has chosen to give us this fine award! Whoohooo!!! Thanks!

I wonder if it comes with coffee….

~ Welcome ~

Welcome to Mannequin Envy’s dynamic sister site.

Use the side navigation links to find news, updates, submission calls, information about the editors of the web-based journal of Mannequin Envy.


Dominic Rouse: Inspired Poetry

Poets at Salty Dreams Poetry Forum wrote poetry in response to Dominic Rouse’s photography. Enjoy samples here, or visit the forum and throw down a few of your own.

Mr. Rouse’s photography has been archived at Mannequin Envy here:


moon in uranus
by Jewelmoon

moon in uranus

billie’s whithering away.
the dementia’s got her in its grip.
she comes up to me,
hair like a halo; asks what day
is today, is it saturday. are there
things I should be doing?

I say no. sit down and make a card.
she says, things are bad for dora
pray for her, will you? is today saturday?

I go out to the van, clothes stuck
to me, thinking how relentless it all is
and how while delivering food, lobsang
wangchuk said, don’t let me get old
I never want to get old and I smile
at him and say something like: way to develop
a nice aversion, dude. but I know he’s right.

I get home, walk through the door,
mom says, hi babe, is today saturday?

I swear, it’s fucking relentless.


My Husband’s Mother Hung Herself When He Was Three
by Tasha

I really don’t like it when he dresses like his mother
but this seems the only way he can talk about it




by Gala of the Garden

he would tie a knot
in her delicate stem,
if only to bathe his tongue
in her strong waters,
nibble delicately
at the cockles,
and feast until neither
could stand another bite.


Chimera Obscura by Dominic Rouse
by AllCellNoKey

1. Consider the belly-button in all its silliness,
absurdity at the center of rubber-skinned wishes,
tied off with pincers and slashed pre-slap
to become a blind eye watching time go by.

And how it pours out from slightly below
to form tiny lives that come and grow,
then cease to exist and decompose.
Puddles, memories, dark wilted rose.

2. How dark is my valley, how lame this game,
strange dreams of wanting, do you see the same?
Overfill the cup with thought in rut,
ever needing more, Good God, what a bore.

Once her ground did shake, was it but a mistake,
or do angels up above miss the hair down there?

3. We wondered what one looked like
that long ago summer,
the year the girls bloomed
and the boys grew wood.

Lumber mill, lumber mill,
innocence out back,
my ship of love
was ready to attack.

Ha-ha, look back,
laugh if you will,
in some cultures
wise old elders

teach boys how to dance.

Preacher, preacher,
last chance to confess,
sin is a lie long spoken
that created this mess.


by Alex Nodopaka

Better than
Vodka or mind
can ever conceive
The forked tongue
ultimate bliss
and eventual agony
concealed in chalice

by Alex Nodopaka

To a flute of white
I prefer a red

Full or empty or
anywhere in-between
her pitch varies

when wetted finger
runs around her rim
she hums and sings


a poem by Methmaker:

on this wall of bed/smoke/cloth
her arms disappear in the ceiling shadows
a voice leading of centime-separated fifths
to sip but not empty
the glowing darkness which brings out all objects