We're a confused collective of marble designers who, after discovering a set of encyclopedias, decided to stick our pinkies into the asphalt parking-lot of words. We seek innovative poetry and prose, work that quivers nervously for attention, work that teethes endlessly on doorknobs. We could toss out a grocery-list of writers—from Spicer to Borges, or O'Connor to O'Hara—but that would confuse you. The best way to understand our editorial preferences is to read the journal. alice blue is published on a hidden mountain-top between Portland, Oregon and Boise, Idaho.