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Archive for January, 2012

I’m told that

By Dustin Holland

space is
cold vast
and empty
but at least
there are
bunnies

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By Ross Vassilev

I remember those nights
when I’d put on
my shoes
and go for a walk
going nowhere at all
there was the black night
and the stars above me
and I felt at home
with the stray cats
and abandoned cars
I liked being alone
and I would do
random acts of
vandalism now and then
I’d look at my watch
and it would say 3:04 AM
and one of those nights
I realized
that I would always be alone
it was the only time
I could be myself
and so I said to myself
fuck, so be it.

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without trying

By Larry Jones

all the things
people
say and do
pretentious
frauds.
all the things
I
say & do
bullshit
phony.
at my feet
a dog
without trying
finally
the
truth.

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By John Schlegel

Is it too soon for this metaphor?
Should I wait until the day after
the next wildfire or hurricane?
Or were the tornados enough?

You see, the problem with earthquakes,
or should I say MY earthquakes,
is that the epicenter is always me.
The damage is entirely on my block,
because I live on the edge of my
own personal San Andreas fault.
Who knew my tectonic plates
constantly shift especially
after a long dinner with you?
Earthquakes can be disasters
like hurricanes, so they should be named,
and if they are mine, after a woman.
We have breaking news
an earthquake just hit Torrance.
The magnitude hasn’t been determined yet,
but we know of one condo
that has been leveled.
Aftershocks continue to rumble.
You see, the problem with earthquakes
is that no matter how many foreshocks
strike I never see them coming
and I’m never truly prepared.
A stockpile of canned food, water,
and batteries do nothing for me.
You see, the problem with earthquakes
is that the P-waves shake me in the same
and opposite direction that the waves are moving,
and I don’t know which way to run.

Is it too soon for this metaphor?
Should I wait until the day after
the next wildfire or hurricane?
Or were the tornados enough?

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umpteenth eating spree

By Sean Ulman

ripe goo glazed in dew
dirt cakes, sloughed skin flakes
organ shakes, gooey pig poo baked on
bacon crackers plastic-pasted, wasted
food drunk… fooey, 2nds & 3rds 4 slackers
spoons hay-cube-heaped w/ gelatin maroon
soups: tail & nail stewed blood bouillabaisses
plastic cases gases, dump the cartilage carts next
to the mercury-stuffed pig hearts, gnash & gulp
umpteenth eating spree

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Gimp Porn

By Cerebella

one man explodes forest fires. another dies licking
a piggy bank worth a
paranoid housewife. strawberry lips

giggling dust bunnies to the clouds-

he’s got forty dollars in his pocket
worth time with southern gentlemen.
ouzo. self-help books, too.

they
spread and whisper to themselves.

we’re on a
road to a dead end, to the

wildflower mating fields
making out with

question marks
so i sometimes worry
i’m going to smell like insects to

my sex life
a ship. a rooster? a furbee!
presents my reflection

to the sky as a sun-dial,
a tense game of transference-chairs
with ego, taking shit seriously,
around the patio

table

i want to rest in the 1800s
with fairy godmothers
as a crescendo of

leftover karma(
wooden cradle
stained neon-hot-glow-in-the-lambs-blood,

creak like
tiaras
stained
nail-salon, tacky like
congregated people stained sheep-herding.

and a
butterknife stained
pill-karate-chop
equals dysfunctional family all together.

)exlovers, exfriends, exfamily, magnetize yourselves

around a greeting card.
draw a flower, say you will.
ram into my bumper car with
negative energy weather.

throw leeches at my dumb ass.

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The Gridiron Diner

By Mather Schneider

There is the usual gallery
of wackos,
homeless men lugging army surplus fardel,
wild as sandpipers,
yellow-throats,
occasional hookers
laughing like kookaburras.
Life is a ziggurat
of coffee-guzzling nut-bags.
But,
there is a waitress named Araceli,
duchess of the diner,
with the curves of a calathus vase
and two yurts bivouaced
high in her shirt.
Her eyes are black sapote
and her figure is a hummocky
mirabile dictu
for which there is no inoculum.
Her Doppler approach to my table
corresponds with the poplar
of Demascus steel
moving down my thigh.
Her words are chryselephantine sculptures
smooth as banana oil
while I might as well
be speaking Upolu,
opening and closing
my mouth like a chub.
At the Gridiron Diner
it’s heaven on a muffin,
matches flare like fireflies
but words will not come
if you order them.
Araceli smiles. My heart jumps
into her hands.

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