Adam Pollet Review: A Journal of Adam Pollet
We’re looking for fresh new perspectives on me, Adam Pollet, and all the things Adam Pollet is interested in: Brazilian chicks, Sudoku, the Times Sunday Styles section, Duke basketball, and premium-grade cupcakes (none of that supermarket glorified-muffin shit, please).
Goat on the Railroad Tracks
Do not send us your second- or third-best poem. We want your favored son, your bright-shining diamond, your sacrificial goat on the railroad tracks of our pages.
Leave the Cannoli
We might or might not be interested in poems about clandestine Italian-American business culture in northeastern New Jersey, and we may, or may not, want to publish those poems in a journal that might be called Leave the Cannoli and that we, whoever we are, may or may not be responsible for editing. Feel free to simultaneously submit, but if we decide to take your poem, we’ll meet you at the docks behind the Lucky Fish Factory at 4 a.m. Come alone. With your poem.
Road Rage Review
We’re looking for work that evokes the truly American feeling of being rear-ended at a busy intersection, emerging from the car like a Greek god, pulling the cocksucker from the front seat of his BMW, ripping open his pelvis, and savagely gnawing on his shrunken prostate.
So Straight! publishes poems about heterosexual love and loss. We want poems that evoke the back seat of a Toyota Camry, the awkward armrests at a suburban movie theater, screaming fights in the dressing room of a J.Crew outlet, text messaging, Starbucks, and John Cougar Mellencamp.
Southern Aquitane Hill
Between Cottonwood Avenue
and 26th Street Review
No profanity or graphic material. No sex. No children’s poems. No scenes with children learning life lessons alongside other children. No nostalgic poems, nor poems that depict a dark apocalyptic future wherein humans are controlled by fascist robots (although that certainly will be the case). In general, we are not interested in poems that explain how people die in gruesome and all too realistic ways, nor do we want poems that hold true love in the highest regard. We do not accept rhymed, formal, free-verse, or prose poems. Response time varies according to the quality of the submission. Sixteen pages, bound with silk, and printed on the skin of a lion. Appears once every Democratic presidential administration. No simultaneous submissions, please.
We publish poetry that makes us weep. Give us dead puppies, single mothers, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Show us headless dolls and lonely circus workers after dark. Take us to kickball games where an overweight child is selected last, or perhaps not at all. Lock us in a bedroom. Lose us in Disney World. Make us kill ourselves, over and over.
The Stilt publishes all forms, styles, and genres from the immediate offspring of Wilt Chamberlain. First cousins are OK, but please, no spouses or cousins-once-removed. DNA sample required with cover letter.