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Archive for May, 2012

By Doug Draime

There sat L. Frank Baum
in the shit house

at the end of the
Yellow Brick Road

on the outskirts of
the Emerald City

where the Wizard
used to do his business

yelling through the
crescent moon
cut in the door:

“Hey, any of you
little people still out there?
The Wizard took
the Sears & Roebuck
catalog from in here. Now, how
in the hell am I
gonna wipe
my ass. Hey, any
Munchkins out there?”

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By Jack T. Marlowe

i don’t
remember
many of
my dreams
but a few
do
survive
the alarm
clock un-
censored:
remakes of
hollywood
noir, with
unknown
actors
trying to
assassinate
me
or
seduce
me
which might
deliver
the same
payoff
in
the
long run
but
even
through
a blurry
lens
there’s
nothing
more
memorable
or
moving
than
scenes
of
death
near-death
or
a well-
sculpted
woman
in
black
panties
which
works out
real well
for some-
one like
me
whose
subconscious
mostly
screens
films
in
black
and white

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Hot Dog

By Larry Jones

Mustard
on my mustache.

Relish
on my shirt.

A whole heap of
self indulgence

on
my
mind.

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By Jay Passer

I took the phone route
by bus
through interstate tundra
across paths of buffalo
serenaded by martyrs sporting
ether castanets
smeared with the blood of Joan of Arc
challenged, smitten
cast in plaster by supplication of creation
apprentice of crop dusters
insect lords
while the goal of engineering is to placate malediction
stupefaction squared versus
incarceration of enlightenment
I took the easy way
out
gave my heart a handjob
and went to sleep
alone

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Erotomania

By Annette Hakiel

the moon blisters with the notion
of meaning that isn’t there.
this is, thankfully, ridiculous.
apply significance to events that didn’t take place.
apple of my eye, i’m in love with a man that doesn’t exist.
the stairs creak with his absence.
you heard it. you heard
me right.

i’m a small-hearted sinner,
the billy goat of dispair howling at the moon.
this is, thankfully, ridiculous.
i’m a dilettante to a life
that is not my own. i’m the bursting shadow
of a popped balloon of the
saddest clown on earth.
you heard me, you hurt me
good.

let’s all go to the lobby
or i’ll slap you one. you’re a hologram of a houdini.
this is, thankfully, ridiculous.
i’m a foot in the doorway of heaven.
i’m instruction manual in mandarin to a
defunct and outmoded 8-track.
i don’t know what the hell i’m talking about
or what you’ve heard. hopefully
it’s all good things. i could go on.

dear me. pass the popcorn. this one’s
for my homies. this one’s good i hear.
it is, thankfully, ridiculous
but worth mentioning. this has
gone on far too long. my worst mistake
was recognizing myself
in the mirror when i woke up this morning.

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A Love Poem

By R.G. Johnson

I was standing on a rat-filled dumpster preaching to a group of orthodox cat burglars about the dire need for honesty in government. From the other side of the kitchen, you laughed and said something about a Spanish horse doing double back flips with a hoof-grab on the backside. Sometimes it feels like we’re speaking in different hues. Red and blue make confusion. Then, as I am about to lose faith in your ability to love, one of the burglars asks me if I would burn for my beliefs, and I get a wonderful idea. You and I should have a date night. We’ll set the forest on fire and drink cheap strawberry wine while God decides if he’s going to let us keep our apartment. Then, we’ll make love on that giant beige satellite dish out in front of your mother’s trailer park. When the light hits the metal just right, your nipples look like Paris in the Springtime.

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By Tim Murray

Is there still such a thing as writing odes or
just to be funny. On the floor again an ode to
the crumby carpet. If there ever was a time for
plastic airplanes to fly rumbling in hallway
making smoke trail Sacred Heart cough then certainly
the time is now. Once a black haired girl was sleeping in
his bed when he woke to pinch himself light fell from the
crunchy sky like sunshine with a bear in its eyes. A blue jeep
dangling from the back of a rusty tow truck ambling down
the gravel alley. There are silent yellow siren lights whirling
mailbox stuffed with used furniture sales and potato bugs. Now
Marko is on the bus again a brown paper grocery sack overflowing
with used mousetraps wedged between his knees. He watches
attentively for the third stop:
Teddy Roosevelt and the Organic Screams.

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