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Archive for March, 2011

Capitulation

By Dennis Mahagin

She asked me
if I was ready
to take a hard

look at my work.

omg lol …

See,
there were these
atrocities going
down

in Libya and
Yemen,
not to mention
eleven

DVDs of mine
temporarily
already

burning a hole
in the tortured
oeuvre of

Overdue at Library.

“Tomorrow,” I
said “I am not
ready yet I swear
that crap will still
be there
tomorrow”

More, so much
more to a life
(isn’t there?)
than these
lines

on a hard
blue screen.
First up

in my queue: Draw
the Blinds, a story, seen
a few times already, was
a fine, fine episode

from the Man from
Uncle.

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By Steve Calamars

i waste the afternoon
with the windows open
and the television talking

pushups on wood floors
and shadow-boxing beneath
off-white ceilings

green tea and comic books
eat away at the hours

till the day dries up and
night floods the city

leaving a sky
feeling sea-sick
coughing up stars
and purple light

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All I Wan(t)

By Zachary J. Woods

I wanna be left alone
in the stripmall parking lot
where between sun and asphalt
skin crackles like pork rinds

Or in the retail store
where colored plastic and
white underwear foam past
the champagne bottle lip

Or in a shopping cart
left to roll downhill
picking up momentum
for the times between crashes

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A Fawn

By Ludmila Polyakova

She keeps her delicates
inside the freezer

on rib bones that could snap so easily
the faucet cries slow drips all day

the pilot light growls and purrs
and bedsheets fold into each other

a warm pillow next to its quiet, cold brother
whispers questions to the ceiling

about height,
who sighs,

just floorboards.

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Michael K Gause

Who knew when the French started being cool in the
post-modern age? Did their cache enjoy such health
that it naturally bled past the New Wave, riding it
without effort, into the electronic default?

I hear the beats now, soft, a breathy vox pulling
them like beads on her tongue. The seduction
capable of the stereo-type quadruples like an
errant gene come alive, squirming the whole
gender open in terrifying blossom.

The pouty kiss of that language sparked thanks
to electronic divas of that country and its neighbors.

Breathy moans were not invented by the French,
just perfected by them.

Struck by the cocktail: modern, sterile syncopation in a
vintage nubile base, as if Lady Day
decided to come back all carnal, just to give
her blessing to the future of fantasy.

Diphthongs rise and lilt in some breezy attempt.
A smile to lift the summer hem. A glimpse of sun
on knee, too conscious of itself.

Each beat is a finger on a nerve point
unknowingly erogenous.

Every note a Kegel flex
around my wide-opened heart.

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The Tool

By Maureen Kingston

of
our time

its
precious
“or”
baked in

two
heads

inbred

the
deformed
son
of York

our
divine
spork.

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By Tyson Bley

unearthed yet: but not so well preserved

lasagna
is
all
a
dream?

hyphenated or broken rubber band, cufflinks for corpse gas
caramel carcass suit

dinosaur loves marijuana, its nipples are a gruesome fact

its nipples’ exposure to flashlight light IS more poetical,
rotates ’em
anti-clockwise

the psychedelic sinks in the earth
beautiful from picking bones clean,
a gramophone inhabiting
each crypt of the toothless

the new street scene – Basquiat, Kinski –
a bumpy linguistic along potato navel cord

the Destroyer hides its hiding place by filling it with stones (brave of you, billionaire of the sinuses
brave
of
you)

false teeth will never fail in their sacred quest

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To You, Meatloaf

By Jason L. Huskey

Meatloaf,
Alpha and Omega,
the beginning and the
oh-shit-look-out-for-that-tree!
Hot steam torque fills crusted tubes,

jogging corpuscles lapping fat
platelets about the tracks,
until the final pinhole of space catches,
love handles of chubby RNA

plugging the dyke; Carrie feels the tug,
her crotch knowing hell
is arriving before her brain
can jot out its binary code:

100101001101001,
put down the goddamn fork
,
her 112-pound frame flopping
across the dining room.

She offers little response as tiny fists
pound at her baseball boobs,
feeling out where the one hundred
and eight stitches will go.

Her brother sneaks a forkful from her plate
as the coarse medics curse the ceiling
for just one more minute to resuscitate.
He prays Heaven is paved with their mama’s

secret recipe. Carrie remembers none of it,
not the dinner, not the excitement
in passing away unsuccessfully–
just the white light of six in the morning and
looking forward to leftovers on Texas toast.

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grassy knolls

By Ross Vassilev

if you think the government is
putting thoughts
in your head you’re
probably right
they put chemicals
in the food
and bullshit
on the 6:30 evening news
they put a second
gunman on the grassy knoll
to split open
Jack Kennedy’s head
like an Irish watermelon
I believe almost every
conspiracy theory
I hear cuz
they’re usually right
like war for oil
and COINTELPRO
we paranoids
are people with vague ideas
about what’s really
going on.

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By Mike Meraz

the music’s still the same
it’s just the walls are louder
the tones and vibes are bouncing off metal
rather than brick
which makes the sound louder
rather than dense and muffled.

the music’s still the same
the voice,
the style,
the sound,
the meaning…

it’s just the world is getting bigger,
more hollow, changing into a huge void
where the tiniest bit of truth
sounds like a thunderous volcano.

it doesn’t take much anymore
because there is not much anymore.

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