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Archive for March, 2013

By Erik Moshe

Mastered monsoons, his hair matted down with apricot gloop
He damn near tried to wear a black top hat on an astronaut’s suit
Every rocket mount had locked routes, cordless but the coordinates varied
The journey into dead space: it was more than just a mortuary
Sir William had a pair of great gonads, he’d elate both hands
Gripping the steel handles of a grand old orrery chamber; a claymore man
The first 18th century pioneer of the United States Space Program
In a time when slaves roamed lands and men held flaked gold pans
“My fellow Americans, the time has come to reach into the universe,”
But that rally was invaded as angry students surged
Should’ve been more concerned about the working unions first
Focused on education, economic stability and crumb cake
President Taft distinctly felt Orion’s belt squeezin around his plump waist
Experiments with propulsion beneath the White House proceeded
Ejected white engine fluid in the oval office
while he relieved the dry mouth of his seamstress
Why frown at this sequence? Ancient astronauts were said to exist
Replace Maya with the red, white and blue interstellar eclipse
Technology took giant leaps and bounds – he’d release a fleet of borgs
Before Woodrow Wilson was even born & briefcases breached the norm
“I’d like a simple two seater if possible. No massive orbital probes”
Was his request, at the behest of a set of questioned astrological codes
First William complained about the lack of leather seats
Taxed the Cherokees, raised funds to brave the skies – metallic dragon elegy
He trained his mind for space, in time began to relax in therapy
And just to prevent being lonely in the milky way, he brought Captain Bethany
The Red Planet glinted in his eyes like he had a sinister purpose
envisioned the searches of foreign planets, was it more than he could manage?
After all, he and his female companion were diminutive earthlings –
NASA was later formed from his discoveries, a swollen sultan of his culture
He was out for the liquid of the stars, gemstones within the oceans of Europa
Suddenly, his usually stoic expression became grave,
Absolutely sure he’d make it out of that hazardous environment
attempted to engage starboard, close the hatch and grip an iron disk
but it turned out Mr. Taft was too fat to fit inside of it…

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By Sara Fitzpatrick Comito

if you can work on your posture you can
work on anything – stop squishing your organs

when pressure in your head oblongs your
eyes it’s myopia, sounds Greek

at least it’s something clinical
consider it the reverse of a telescope

a machine that makes
everything inside look big

my friend’s mom hated to think about
those pulsing things working on her behalf

she died young of a heart attack but was
glad to know I had moved on from that man

even at my immediate peril. Some mechanisms
are faithful when we don’t think about them

stretch your spine, make space, but you can’t be
afraid of invasion. Gird nothing. Good luck.

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By Dominik Kai Brotherton

typing tip-toes round colour-blind lasagne party debris
ambiguous non-vegan limbs in the 6 o’clock lack of sunlight
silhouettes of sons and daughters
draped sheets of skin and glowing bones
ketchup splattered haribo bondage paraphernalia
plastic wristbands and rubber jewellery
cheap slinks that don’t go clink
just a sound that can’t be written
non-biodegradable hydrocarbons
neon and un-natural ring
finger you because you are you are
extinct unicorns with dildos on their foreheads
like in a porn movie i once lost and found
boys and girls
what a muddle

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By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The coffee maker is set for 5:30,
the toilet plunger works for less
than minimum wage,
and something has to be done
about the mice in the walls
between us
that scratch
and scurry
and dry hump
all the insulation
because vermin have
needs too.

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By Melanie Browne

Mother Teresa with her
feet up on a winged ottoman
watching “Let’s Make A Deal,”
screaming in the seraphic amphitheater,
“Take the money!”

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don’t make me

By Larry Blumen

I’m not a comedian
don’t make me
make you laugh
although I could if
I weren’t sitting down

My aim is more
insidious—
to make you smile
without rippling the
muscles of your face
at all—
a conjurer’s trick
performed with
my sleeves rolled up
to my ankles

the furrows of your
unseen brain
will shiver
with metallic tastes

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By JD Nelson

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Tupperwhere

It was easy, eating rat.

* * *

“Your planet,” I said, “disgusts me.”
“Where were you born?” she asked.
“Nowhere,” I said.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Get on the Moon, Apollo!

“There’s no ink for Sunday’s paper, so we’ll have to do without coupons,” said the toad. “We’ll have to do without comeeks.”

“Get away from me with that eye,” said the tree.

The brain happening to the self.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

luncheon dungeon

a moon in every living room
a lion in every den

swansome in my new nikes
(rhymes with mikes, not psyches)

it was easy, eating art.

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