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Archive for December, 2010

The End

By Mather Schneider

Imagine
centuries from now
when our sun is burning out
and life is dying.
What would matter to you?
Would you care about
feng shui or
wicca
or how your abs look
or if your subscription to Pussy Foot Poetry
has lapsed?
Would you care what’s on
the dollar menu
or how horrible the Dallas
airport is
or what’s on tv on Thursday nights
at seven?
Maybe a few rich could
escape on ships to live in some
artificial environment
somewhere
but without cheap labor
they too would
soon die.
What possible reason could you find
to go on?
Who would help you through it?
Billy Collins?
Just imagine
centuries from now
or maybe
tomorrow.

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Alley Murders. . .

By Tyson Bley

Geraniums partake of the pianist’s flesh, so much they love the little brat. I remember being jealous, hearing it. I’m such a, such a jealous person, you know? It continues to this day, and the cords are noisome. My face is ham. I’m transplanting the ham grimace. Shuffling out of the auditorium, I set out to buy a Rammstein stuffed animal, just to feel better. I stop, because I have to stop, and admire the traffic lights surrounding the sand castles. There’s a lot more to life than this – there’s so much, so much to admire. There’s the shape-retaining function of duct-taped dream messages. And 3D specs are only $2, through which you can see what pests on coke really look like: a cauliflower conglomeration of Wagner. Jaba de Hut was his lover, although he’s nowhere in the picture now.

Back at the apartment my spaced-out girlfriend coos over her new shotgun license. ‘This baby is laced with a pathogen,’ she says. ‘Oscar De La Renta toilet water!’ It smells OK. And I really like it when Sissy boasts this way. It gives her voice a batrachian aspect. Sissy is currently married to the smallpox Juke, whose drum machines – electronic polyps with bloody, rhythmically popping souls – perform best under golden showers, and I become so, so jealous even though no one’s playing them and the sounds are merely points of the compass that lead to the institution’s ends.

I have been told that I will die in a drive-by shooting. That’s OK, but untrue, as Sissy demonstrates by folding the license into a paper shotgun reeking of oldman perfume and aiming it at my chin, squinting. I’ve always wanted to be stupendous; as in, I always wanted to be stupidly hard to shoot with a BB gun. And today I want to feel the infinity-coroner’s extension. It’s not an infinitely long dick. Nothing like that. It’s a tiger. Prodding me. I will be buried in a dinosaur encrusted costume; the only thing inapposite will be my decomposition, which will consist of prairies of shirt hair. That is how, hovering in a corona of dead, pube-shaped alleys, each a possible destination curtailed by boredom or distraction, I will free my murders.

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the deer, where they belong

By Harry Calhoun

And the deer jump out wide-eyed
in front of the headlights
and we leap into the oncoming traffic

and instinct might make us each
a stereotype, but that is not the only
act we perform. The deer is meat,

we are mortal and so much the same,
surprised by bright lights and the last
hard bump of something smacking us

upside the head, reacting, simply reacting,
the first thing and the last thing
we know

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1416

By Michael Frissore

Rain goes up today.
A tree falls onto my house
and paralyzes my girlfriend.
I try to heal her with citrus.
Tomorrow there will be no rain,
just miniature, pocket sized cripples.

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By Donal Mahoney

For a year this image has haunted me.
Over and over I hear on the gramophone
Cohen put in my ear
“Feature this:
On a crowded elevator
a strange woman in a baseball cap
unbuttons your fly.”
That image is on the ceiling every night
as I sit shiva in the lobby
of this small hotel,
a hookah, like a tired cobra,
coiled at my feet,
a shamrock in my buttonhole
dead from the last parade.
Night after night,
I think about this strange woman
as each hour I watch
the doors of the elevator
part and give birth.
I observe each new guest carefully,
hoping the woman in the baseball cap
will tire of the rain and ride up
in the elevator and register.
I want her to sit in the lobby
and talk with us.
We who are guests here forever
have eons to hear
what she has to say.
We have paid our rent in advance.
We can afford to sit here and see.

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Portrait of the Artist

By Matthew Ross

I knew him
at the moment of creation,
when thoughts were dark,
and chaos hovered
over the face of the manuscript.

Back then, he wasn’t such an ass.

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something for nothing

By Larry Jones

Hey Mister,
wanna buy a rock?

A little girl,
maybe eight years old,

her table set up
her mother nearby
and a sign,

10 cent rocks
25 cent rocks
50 cent rocks

I bought a fifty cent rock,
tipped her a quarter.

What kind of parent
teaches their kid
this kind of shit?

What kind of man
goes along with the hustle
and
gives a little girl
something for nothing?

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