Category Archives: Words

Swap Shop


Swap Big screen TV for moped. Small wooden antique
ladder, trade for police scanner. 96 Ford Windstar minivan
for small motorhome, bread truck or Ford Ranger pickup.
Antique Kenmore port-able washer, trade for 30.30
Winchester. 715-392-2722.

Swap 2-3 young roosters for 2 male kittens. 218-834-2399.

Swap water heater 40 gallon, gas, less than 1 year old & 4
burner gas range, both almost new and converted to natural
gas. Trade for plane tickets to Philipines or ? (715) 392-

Swap 5 3 x 8 inch pieces of metalbestos chimney pipe for
firearm or whatever. Swap never used foosball table, was a gift,
for firearm or whatever 218-451-0341.

Michelle Matthees lives in Duluth, Minnesota. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Memorious, PANK, The Prose Poem Project, HAL, and the Baltimore Review. Last October, she published her first book-length book of poetry with New Rivers Press, titled Flucht.

A Dam Is a Promise

Courtesy Ohio DNR

Courtesy Ohio DNR


Before Buckeye Lake dam failed, Noah’s Ark was a Little Golden Book on Jon Fortner’s daughter’s bookshelf.

Before Buckeye Lake dam failed, it had gone by other names. In 1750, the area that would become Buckeye Lake was described as a great swamp known as “Buffalo Lick.” When filled in 1830, the lake was known as “Licking Summit Reservoir.” And in May 1894, the lake was repurposed for recreation, the area being dedicated as a public park and renamed “Buckeye Lake.”

Before Buckeye Lake dam failed, engineers from the U.S. Army Corps said there was a high likelihood of a dam failure and the safest measure would be to drain the lake permanently. The cause of concern stemmed from the homes, which began sprouting up about a century ago, after the state’s approval, as well as the docks placed into the lakeside of the dam that have now “displaced or disrupted large portions of the embankment, significantly weakened by the more than 370 homes and other structures that have been sunk into the 4.1-mile earthen dam.” The 177-year-old dam no longer met current safety requirements.

Before Buckeye Lake dam failed, recommendations were made for immediately replacing the dam to prevent a ” catastrophic failure.”

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“Tangents Are The Point” Q & A with Milwaukee author Todd Lazarski

Todd at a Dunkirk social club

Todd at a Dunkirk social club

Q&A with Milwaukee author Todd Lazarski as he romanticizes and sometimes denigrates: Chris Paul; sarcasm’s hidden kindness; self-destruction as research; necessary meanness in food writing; and thoughts of his father, dead at 39


Todd Lazarski, 33, quietly compartmentalizes his obsessions, sort of shadowboxes that he knows have to see sun, even if it’s when they’re getting tossed. Inside-turned-out, Todd found relief in the release of his first novel, “Make the Road by Walking” (June 2016, on Cleveland’s Red Giant Books), a familiar-feeling journal across the Midwest, New Orleans and California. He has realized personal space as a “fat guy” – pretend or otherwise – devouring the world 10 dinners at a time, in Rio de Janeiro, Buffalo and Milwaukee, in pieces for Paste, TimeOut, Shepherd Express and Milwaukee Record. His next exposition will be a second novel, “Spend It All”, a reckoning of idiotic youth with whatever the hell it is that compels us to trudge ahead and try into near adulthood, chicken finger sub in hand (you can read an excerpt here; he’s currently playing matchmaker with a publisher).

I met Todd a few years ago due to the Buffalo Bills, the team of our respective home fields in western New York though we had both been transplanted to Milwaukee. Along with the yeoman’s bliss from running back Fred Jackson, we shared Jim Harrison and Stanley Elkin books, and realized it’d be easier to be friends than to tough it out as isolated fans. This past December, we went on a road trip for readings at the marvelous Mac’s Books in Cleveland and a book release in Buffalo. These acts pulled Todd further from internalized roiling over writing and out into its small but not-always-wretched public aspects. The following unabashedly long-form Q&A is an extrapolation on that tangent – a dialogue of poignancy and personal jabs, edited (honestly!) for flow, from two nights in early March in Milwaukee.

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If you keep walking eventually you can become snow, it takes a while though. If you don’t walk long
enough you just end up getting too cold and wanting to turn back. Worse yet, if you’re really far out,
past that dividing line, you run the risk of dying on the walk back. Instead, better to keep going. Best of all, when you turn into winter, you eventually turn into spring. And who knows what the possibilities are when that happens. Only spring and you will know the answer to that. And maybe better than best of all, you will know the answer to a question that none us who stayed back will ever know.


Jack C. Buck lives in Denver, Colorado, where he teaches at a public school. He is the author of the book, Deer Michigan, a collection of 62 flash fiction stories. You can reach him on Twitter @Jack_C_Buck.

I can’t find them in Michigan



These lost people we’re supposed to love. I’ll search a million years. When I can’t
find them around the kitchen counter. When I go looking for my father in a red
velvet casino somewhere down a red velvet street. When I wait on the bench near
the poker pit or in some other ashtray choking. When I call through the smoke
Daddy, is that you, when I run out of ways to run down the freeway screaming,
when aortas hook up with slot machines, when red velvet skies pump down
downtown when cashiers behind ropes clink clink. When a hooker drools down
her lipstick. When I yell across IS THAT YOU does he hear me? These lost things
do they see me? When my mother can’t see the moon or sea. The empty bottle
when I find the phone when they save her life when she’s nearly done when I
punch 9-1-1 when I am 9, or 11 . When she stows her sunglasses in the freezer
last week. When she looks for my face in the sink yesterday. When today she
turns 85. When she can’t remember a thing. When tomorrow I drop my heart
down the soapy dark dishwater to see if it still floats.

Tell me the story of the day I was born, I ask a fine pine outside the kitchen door.

Tell me again why I was named Bonnie, I ask a tire swing swinging



Bonnie Jill Emanuel is a poetry student in the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program at The City College of New York. She holds a BA in Creative Writing and Foreign Languages from University of Michigan’s Residential College. Her poems have appeared in The Westchester Review, Podium, 2 Horatio, and Chiron Review. She was born and raised in Detroit

Finally, Then



After dinner is over, dishes clean,
their porcelain lips stacked in smiles
behind the cupboard door.

After your desk is organized,
emails sent, final draft finished,
your to-do list a flock of check marks
like migratory birds flapping
down the column and out
to the horizon of a light-suffused land
called Everything is Done.

Finally, you can do whatever it is
you say you’ve always wanted to do.
Or not said, because naming can sometimes
dilute a dream’s dark essence.

But there’s bank overdraft to fix,
unread library books to return,
another doctor’s appointment,
and these days when you accelerate,
your car makes a screaming noise
like a small trapped animal.
You can picture its curled body,
dark eyes, terrified your speed
will toss it onto the moving parts
of a machine made only to go go go.
Maybe, after you get it fixed,
clear up a few other things,
finally, then, you’ll have time.



Laura Grace Weldon is the author of a poetry collection titled Tending and a handbook of alternative education, Free Range Learning, with a book of essays is due out soon. She lives on Bit of Earth Farm where she’d get more done if she didn’t spend so much time reading library books, cooking weird things, and singing to livestock. Her background includes teaching classes in memoir and poetry, leading nonviolence workshops, writing poetry with nursing home residents, facilitating support groups for abuse survivors, and writing sardonic greeting cards. Connect with her at

Far Behind


You’re out of the car, I’m afraid you’ve been declined

You shake my hand while you’re pissing on my leg

“Are you playing that stupid Social Distortion song again?” Chloe calls from outside the bathroom, for what seems like the thousandth time.

From behind the bathroom door, Roge ignores her again, for what seems like the thousandth time.

“Why are you doing this?” she says, her voice fluttering somewhere between bored and irritated.

Roge can hear that edge in her voice, especially through the hollow-core bathroom door, which he has found to be a rather effective conductor of anger.  He takes a deep breath to compose himself.  “I’m not doing anything.  I’m just getting ready for work.”

“You play this fucking song every morning is what you’re doing.”

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Ann Arbor

Tree image for Great Lakes Rev


Our landlord said we should find a hotel
while he tacked and stained the oak floors,
but we were broke, so Pop pitched a tent
in the backyard beside the great tree,
where my mind climbed among fruit
flies and caterpillars, hungry for cherries
I couldn’t reach. Only birds and Mr. Dodge,
our landlord, balanced on his ladder, angling
his silver pole with telescopic extension,
could pluck those rubies I would later
link to Plato tending his fire, Freud
and Marx. He passed a few down,
and we stuffed our mouths and pockets.
At night we lay on foam mats
beneath a single sheet, July’s wet heat.
Those blinking hours before sleep,
I assessed the seams, triangular panels
that composed a ceiling, nylon mesh
through which I watched branches bow.
Cherries dropped safe as snow falling
into snow until, by chance, one struck
the tent’s taut roof. Mom stirred,
shifted her weight. The unborn child
stuck in breech stomped her bladder.
I remember she unzipped the door,
crawled out like a she-animal, low-slung
middle scraping the tent’s under-lip.
She hiked her nightgown, and I heard
water (not blood), smelled rotten fruit,
not the iron tang that would linger state
to state—doctors’ bills, late fees—at least
he’s alive, they said. A miracle to wake
early and hear his voice, brother born
blue who needs a little money.
He’s looking for an apartment.
His girlfriend carries a baby.


Ben Gunsberg is an Assistant Professor of English at Utah State University. He earned an M.F.A. from the University of Alabama and a Ph.D. from the University of Michigan. His poetry appears in CutBank, The Southeast Review, and The South Carolina Review, among other magazines. He is the author of the chapbook Rhapsodies with Portraits (Finishing Line Press, 2015). His poetry manuscript, Cut Time, won the University of Michigan’s Hopwood Award for Poetry Writing. Though a Michigander at heart, he now lives in Logan, Utah, at the foot of the Bear River Mountains.

Chou en-Lai in Toledo



Given that the wonton wasn’t worth shit,
and all the poppies at all the tables were plastic and dust-laden,
and that no interesting person had ever or was ever
going to come into this Cantonese restaurant in downtown
Toledo, Ohio, it sure looked okay for Premier Chou
to opt for an early-out this day and walk next door to enter
his Gobi-quiet, Gobi-cold room adjoining the Ramada’s
parking lot, and thank heaven, the pillows rose
from their twin beds to meet his handsome head,
and in no time flat he was hearing loaded trucks
moving over asphalt roads to the far, far west,
and he couldn’t stop seeing tires endlessly rolling
across his sleep and his mother’s packaged feet.



William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.

Seul Choix Point, Michigan: Of Shells and Strata, Time and Terrain

Screenshot 2017-01-29 08.53.27BY ROBERT ROOT

This essay is part of the Great Lakes Review’s Narrative Map project. 

I’ve been tracking the Niagara Escarpment, a geologic formation that arcs from Wisconsin through upper Michigan and Ontario past Niagara Falls into western New York. In the Upper Peninsula, Seul Choix Point interrupts a long stretch of Lake Michigan shoreline, between the Garden Peninsula on the west and the Mackinac Bridge on the east. The name comes either from French explorers who thought the point the only choice–“seul choix”—for shelter between Mackinac Island and Green Bay or from a distortion of an Ojibwa word, “shashoweg,” the straight line. As my wife and I approach, I ignore college French lessons and use the local pronunciation, “Sis-shwa.” I want to see the way the Niagara Cuesta slides under Lake Michigan here.

Passing the Seul Choix Lighthouse to reach a path through the trees to the shoreline, we emerge onto a broad flat rock beach, its surface uneven but mostly uniform. Shrubs and grasses grow in crevasses and deeper indentations are filled with either lake water or layers of small white shells. We weave our way toward the water across eroded strata, broken chunks of flat rock lying in small pools or in the midst of shells. Dark mosses spill over cracks and fractures. Just offshore glacial erratics rise above the waves. It’s an overcast morning, and the waves match the grayness of the clouds and the grayness of the rocks.

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