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Archive for September, 2010

a haiku before serendipity

By Desmond Kon

fuck this shit, I’m gone –
with that, buick and trophies
left too, lights intact

call me in donghae
make it matter, you said cold
to the touch, gold chains

downloads, games, sadness
both fridges stocked for three weeks
marker stains, whiteboard

contact me there, you
make it matter, you wrote, cold
to the touch, gold chains

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By Harry Calhoun

We’re talking Jupiter, bigass planet
but where the hell is it? Behind some cloud,
probably, even if not, I got no telescope.
OK, so we’re talkin’ the largest oyster

ever spotted in the depths of the sea.
Never saw that, either. We’re talkin’ about amoebas
and other creatures you can’t see
with the naked eye. Or we could be

talking about the obvious you never see.
You know, the huge red inkblok,
a colorful Rohrshach sleeping beside you
like the faithful dog that you ignore

because it’s kinda creepy and a different species.
We sometimes ignore that which we can’t see.
that is our doom, the oyster, the amoeba,
the bright red spot and the obvious that

we are not equipped to see.

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First date

By Tyler Bigney

So, she said
you’re some sort of writer?
I guess you could call me that.
What do you write?
I write about everything, really.
No, she said, I mean, like,
do you write poetry
or short stories or what?
Both, I said.
There’s no money
in poetry, she laughed.
Not at all, I smiled,
and changed the subject.
What about you
What do you do?
Oh, I work in insurance.
I mean, it sucks,
but it’s not completely awful
or anything.
It pays the bills.
Good money, I bet.
Good money, she nodded.

I waved the waitress over.
Can she have the bill, please, I said,
nodding to my date
across the table.

I looked up from my feet
once the waitress was
out of earshot.
I sort of just assumed,
I said, smiling, so wide
I laughed.

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This Is It

By Mike Meraz

so here you are
reading another one
of my poems

it is not going to be
a good poem

it is going to be
a poem about you

reading another one
of my poems

if you have never had
a poem written
about you this is it.

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The Milk Man

By Larry Jones

Blame it on the woman,
the cop
the church.

On the soldier,
the left
the right.

Blame it on Obama,
Elvis
Smith/Jones
Bush.

On the black man,
white man
rich man
poor man
milk man.

The problem,
man,
is little ol’ you.

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By Donal Mahoney

Between her legs
the doctor found a goatee

gray as city pigeons
flying through factory smoke

a goatee that hadn’t been combed
that hadn’t been kept

that quit in fangs
an inch above her knees

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last grenade

By Damian Rivera

the physician’s
assistant at the
doctor’s office
told me that my
blood pressure
is way too high
for someone
my age
“how high?” i asked
“dangerously high” she responded

so now i’m waiting it out,
ready for this blood pressure
to make good on it’s threat,
waiting
for
it
to
boil
over
and
crescendo
into
a
glorious
explosion
in
my
brain,

the
final
grenade
to
end
the
war
up
there

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