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Archive for January, 2011

Ars Comedia Act 1

By David Hale

Those boots are nice what are they made of?
(Kittens)

Mime getting mugged
(By clowns)

Bringing the heat on the dance floor
(Spirit fingers)

Six children playing tag
(Seventh eaten by a bear)

Bear eating child
(Bear eating child)

Man wearing white dress
(After Labor Day)

Punching down trees
(With your penis)

Tiger riding horse
(Into the oval office)

People getting abducted by aliens
(Too dumb to run away)

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, Robot

By JD Nelson

Greater metro area rug. All along the waffletower. It was Helen of Troy, or maybe it was Helen Reddy. Twenty-four hours in a jail in the USA, in Xenver. Crayola Mars at Grand Rabbit’s. Things thunk. Hamburger at dawn. Impossibly tonight. Everything is backwards on the bus. The brain in my brain. I am the agent of green rocks on the north side of town. Trees of science and America. What it is, in black denim. A creature of time in the darkness. Online swimming lessons for fish. I came back from the Moon as a frog-faced Dracula.

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By Christine Reilly

the knife decides that enough is enough.
he wants the spoon. he wants her real bad.

he watches her
scoop that lime half this afternoon,
the one he slices first, so thick with salacities
stupidly paring into the plum-thick bulk
of the finger, such a wanton mess

and the spoon does nothing, nothing
but serve the mouth the pulp of the lime
the perfect o-shaped clutch of nourished little moon.
and if that didn’t kill him enough
the spoon has the audacity, the nerve
to serve the afterthirst of the mouth
with a teaspoon full of water, just a taste,
as though that bitch-spoon
was grand as a champagne boat.

but enough of that. the knife asks his buddy,
the hungerpot, to boil the hidden cannabis
discreetly placed in the sugarbowl and bake out the kitchen,
blazing away and seeping
into the pores of all the cutlery.

the parchment paper and tin help him woo the spoon
by giving birth to some cookies,
rising high in the oven, smelling so sweetly.

so, the spoon and the knife get high together
and laugh and eat and watch youtube videos and laugh.
they exchange coy glances. they rip off
the other’s sheen. they go
chop chop chop on the kitchen sink.

damn baby, the way you make me rise is enough
to make me think i’ve turned into a fork
, notes the knife.
when all is cut and done,
a milkish-mushroomy sheen coats the knife.
he closes his eyes. when he wakes the spoon is gone.

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Angels Land

By Charles Bane Jr.

Angels land
on corners
of busy streets;
I love their folds
and silent looks
and the possibility
of launch to my
first dreams when
I saw them in an
antiseptic room
and thought, there
is no abyss or waiting
dark should I fall
asleep. No, I thought,
there is nothing
of the common way
in what I see
and raised on elbows
I watched clouds swollen
with manna in a falling
winter scene.

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By Justin Hyde

either you
take up
with a
decent one

she circles
the outskirts
of your heart

a kind
innocuous
glider

landing softly
to play
the role
of talking
paperweight.

or you
bend over
to tie
your shoe

and one pierces
your heart
like a wayward
javelin

blood on your hands

three steps behind

you chase her
like wind
through the
fields.

boredom

or torture.

there is no
middle ground.

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all through the house

By Peter Marra

Christmas break.

aged 13, a boy,
on 86th street in
brooklyn, ny waits
under the el

(where they filmed that chase
scene in the french connection).

twilight hush light snow

a tall woman
walks toward him
black
cashmere
cape

black shiny boots stiletto

noel
clench
noel
teeth
noel
in the store
windows

slight flutes
playing in his head

she smiled a wet smile
as she passed by

and the girlie magazine
he had hidden

under his coat made his
chest / stomach

contract fall.

her silhouette and time
sliced his mind

train rumble scream,
fired fierce through and through

then she was gone

time to go home:
where daddy rips the
lights off the tree

because mommy bore a
hole through his brain
earwig drilling

wishing to slice from ear to ear

fired fierce through and through

neurons ripped and
discarded until tomorrow

He lay down on the bed
beneath a blanket of tarot cards

becoming one with Joan of Arc
as she listened to the angels’ call

float
fall
falling

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By Shannon Peil

– brushing my teeth every day
– humming along to classic rock i used to hate
– sometimes claiming i won’t buy a pack of smokes today
– calling missing a party ‘catching up on sleep’ rather than ‘being a loser’
– eating a damn salad once in a while
– stopped claiming i have aspbergers all the time
– respectfully turning my music down at intersections
– wearing pants that fit
– social anxiety

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