Archive for July, 2010


By David LaBounty

this day
was spent
at the
dreams, the



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Love and Slaughter

By Donal Mahoney

Sheep are by a goat while
cattle are like swine, prodded, yet
cattle go by hammer while
swine are by the hind leg hung
then swung about to spigot.
Quicker, infinitely cleaner, is
the hacksaw of sweet Susan’s laughter.

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By Claire Bircher

I smeared Vaseline
on my window last night.

Just enough to
obscure the truth,
to filter the sun.

Smoke and mirrors of inclement
weather; framed and hung for
my eager body to accept what
my head already knows.

I can’t go out there today.

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By Zack Rearick

The fat and stupid squawk
of your leg against mine
in the diner, in the
first corner I could find.
You lean back as you talk

and offer me your wine
(my water being free)
and offer, as I balk,
your heart as well to me
and tell me that I’m kind.

The waiter’s twenty-three
and has a funny walk.
Your fingers are entwined
like ugly, plastic stalks.
You spill apologies

and dirty up the floor.
I tighten in a ball
like Catherine Deneuve
recoiling from the wall
as I watch you explore

the skin beneath my shawl,
the skin beneath my glove.
The waiter’s bringing more.
There isn’t light above.
Your hand begins to fall,

your hand and then your love.
I grin and count to four.
You cannot speak at all.
I point you to the door
and chuckle as I shove.

I sail out like a hawk
escaping from a crime.
The dusk is gold with glee.
I wash my body sore,
contented with my thrall
and my response thereof.

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By Keith Higginbotham

The creation of pinball, a backdrop
of the Pacific Ocean, cap in hand, lectures
an hourglass re-creation of
the North Star machine. Who has

pictured himself beside narrative silkscreen
submarine playfields peppered with cosmic
cowhide boy bands in the advice of
electric versions? A freestanding

moon, rendered in doubletake
hypersaturated stop motion, created
intently for experimental
retro barrage.

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Diaper Deck

By Ben Nardolilli

Never leave baby unattended,
Baby who you laid down the towel for,
Baby you fastened the strap for,
Baby who is faceless,
Baby without gender,
Child of the cream-colored background
Baby divided in limbs by brown,
Baby who has not been politically socialized,
Baby whose towel you have disposed of,
Never leave baby unattended,
Or baby will fall off
And send stars shooting off his/her head

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Letter to You

By Michael K. Gause


A new year and the jury’s still out on what will fire us in new directions, what axons will dwindle from disuse, and which comets will call us into the street.

“I open myself to the myriad and labyrinthine passages this city architects within me.”

a) Yes

b) No

I haven’t heard from you in a while, so I will assume you are doing wondrous things in the realm of art and love. Books, travels to urbane civilizations, invisible meetings with auspicious people. Huzzah. I have always respected a nose against the grindstone, even when my own actions seem to contradict.

“My path remains elusive, but I admit I miss you.”

a) Yes

b) Yes

c) Look, I…

As I write this letter, I am having a wonderful moment at the bar. Two older women (what this means at 42, one can surmise for herself), each a descendant of the other. One a 60’s activist the other a world traveler turned mail carrier. Their verbal leapfrog is enough to give perspective even to a myopic shite like myself, a perspective usually gleaned in more quiet, exquisite moments. But you don’t frequent the bars I do. Like I do. With good reason, I suspect. Quiet local legend speaks of your epic days, and you have to stop doing something for people to start revering it proper.

“Look, if you want to grab a drink sometime…”

a) Nice

b) Oh, now you come around

c) No

Have you seen the local literary projects around lately. Some are evolutionary steps from themselves, others are simply the reawakening after winter. They are wrapped in such beautiful colors. Like most presents, the packaging is the best thing about them. You get to the heart of it and you start feeling like you missed something still in the box. The idea seems to be that if you package something well enough, that becomes part of the present. I wish I bought that sometimes. So much seems to be just fluff with good PR. I know. That makes me elitist. That’s okay. I’m old enough to know

a) what to care about

b) what to leave the wind

c) time sorts it out

d) all of the above

e) my shoe size

I’ll end here, my friend. Drop me a line sometime, and tell your mother hello. Catch me up on things. You are still writing, aren’t you?

I guess I should have asked you that earlier.



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