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Archive for May, 2010

By Robert Vaughan

(dad)

The teacher released the deformed creature.

“Won’t a wolf get it?” Timmy asked.

Mr. Jamison said, “No way to know.”

We watched it hobble through the grass, toward the copse of trees.

“I think it’s sad,” Juanita said.

Part of life, I heard dad say a millionth time. Just like mom’s lymphoma.

Part of life.

(mom)

The teacher let the deformed creature go. We were a small handful of chaperones

at the Science Center. No one saw me grab the creature from the bushes. My little Debbie

turned and threw me a look, mom, you coming? The creature didn’t stir, not a peep.

I started to salivate. Would it taste better with cumin or cardomom?

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Be My Baby

By William Merricle

The governor’s head is swollen
From hiking the Appalachian Trail
It’s the same shade as that big purple fetus
Painted on the side of the barn along Route 65
Whose umbilical cord looks like
The scythe of the Grim Reaper

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By Russell Streur

Censor: All rise.  Court is in session.  Who’s first?

Bailiff: This one, under alias of Terpsichore.
Censor: What are the charges?

Bailiff: Count One.  Dancing in air.

Terpsichore: Best performed as a couple’s step.

Bailiff: Count Two.  Dancing on water.

Terpsichore: Room temperature, please.

Bailiff: Count Three.  Dancing with fire.

Censor: Isn’t that supposed to be, Playing with fire.

Bailiff: The particulars quite plainly state, Dancing with fire.

Terpsichore: A careen, said to be of Persian origin.

Censor: Dancing it is then.  What else?

Bailiff: Count Four.  Dancing on earth.

Censor: A most serious charge.  Who accuses?

Fat Mind: I accuse.  She’s thin as a rail and needs some meat on her bones.

Censor: The accused may see the menu.

Terpsichore: I’m not hungry.

Censor: An admission.  Guilty as charged.

Terpsichore: I refuse to swallow such injustice.

Censor: We have ways of making you eat.

Chorus of the Fat:

Secret seasonings.
Secret recipes.
Secret ingredients.
Secret formulas.

Fat Mind: Open wide.

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By Dennis Mahagin

On the hood
of her tan Lexus,
she pinched me
hard and good
in brachial
plexus: “You’ve got
a lot of fucking
nerve,” she
said.

With bad
hand, my evil
self grabbed up
a hot purple
Blackberry

Curve, tried texting
my neuro surgeon pal
Matthew Guelph, but the thing
was the ring tone had died, I was plum
alone up there, on the hood ornamental
as a Deep Space
Nine screensaver.

“Would you trust me
with a Bic razor?” she
asked, as we worked
our way up

the windshield glass,
slithery bodies
silvery as chrome
glint.

Let’s just say
I was weary of pottery
classes, navel lint, Trekkie
conventions, scratch n’ sniff
lottery tickets …I wanted her best
Jerry Ryan to slap my nerd
glasses off,
make my bare
ass speak softly
as a squee
gee, as Emily
Dickinson with
lemon wax cuticle on a
super nova paperweight.

Say we
aspired to snow angels
more formidable than any wipers
known to desire, when she broke
off my radio antenna, whipped
a useless Verizon smart phone
into the tall grass, I begged and
begged her for broader

horizons, to tan my
ass silly, to simply
make me out
a better
man.

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By David S. Pointer

The way Mekong Delta blues
whiskey ignites the projector

The way the sniper knows
the nape of her unslit neck

The way water scorpions
scram w/o official direction

The way a hometown kid wears
a desert death box home

unfilmed

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Best If Used By

By Amanda Deo

You told me to go fuck myself so
I put the kettle on.  (This is a
phenomenon in America)
Slapped the microwave with
an open hand. Kicked the
recycling bin like Jackie Chan.
Handed the fridge its ass like
Chuck Norris.  Reached for the
milk that was now expired
and I really wish we’d
fought about your
mother last
Tuesday.

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recovery

By Karl Koweski

two hours after the removal
of my wife’s uterus
I’m able to visit her
in the cold anonymity
of her hospital room
in the maternity ward

strange, I think
since she’s as far from
maternity as
I feel from matrimony
yet here we are

I grimace when she groans
I smile, thin-lipped
when she attempts to mask
her pain with a brave face
this familiar façade
my every expression
calculated to deliver
the maximum appearance
of empathy

I deposit ice chips
between her cracked lips
sexually inert tongue
birthing from her mouth
and I wonder when is
the soonest I can leave
without seeming to be
a callous husband

when the cute nurse
enters to record the vitals
I excuse myself to
the bathroom where I pop
a Lortab scavenged from
my wife’s purse

as the nurse performs
her own wooden dance
of enforced sympathy
I flip open my cell phone
checking the messages
I ignore the texts
sent by my daughter
ask how her mom’s
surgery went in favor
of the messages from
my lover informing me
how her pussy is so wet
she can’t wait for me
to touch it

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