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Apocalypse Appendix

2008-07-28T14:41:00.000-07:00

By: William Briggs

Appendix is fucked. I can tell. It hurts like it’s in a bind, being held by hairy hands and wringed. This pain has got to go away. Cut it out? Sure get rid of it. I don’t need it.

It’s like my gut had tacs and nails for breakfast and on its way out of the diner decided to finish the last of the lemon juice with a big swig.

You don’t even need an appendix. It’s a waste of space, extra weight. Trim girls should get them chopped out before they slip into that dinner dress.

“Look, I don’t have a deal for you. I have an offer that you have to take.”

I was getting started with the tough talk. I pretended I was talking to my big, wet, appendix. All goo and blood looking at me with heaps of pain.

“I can’t make it more simple, if you don’t take this offer, you’re dead. Fuck, you’re kid’s dead too.”

That’s right. Squirm in your seat.

My appendix opens his mouth. How the hell did he get a moustache?

“Ok, I know you’re serious and your friends are serious, but I’m serious too. I’ll have everything delivered tomorrow morning. It’s that simple. Kill me now and you don’t have a package—just a waste problem."

The Ones Who Sing At Night

2008-07-27T21:31:00.000-07:00

By: Dennis James

Look.

Listen.

Love him

Never give up.

This will leave me haunted.

“This will leave you haunted in your mirror…”

Now, all that I hold dear shatters with the light of coming dawn.

Suddenly, love is nothing but distortion and prostitution of my desire— the consequences of which confront me under unforgiving fluorescent lights.

It was St. Augustine who wrote that human unhappiness is divine evidence of our immortality— for we are all wild and restless hearts, and intuition tells us that Earth is not our true home.

We devoured all that we knew was rightfully ours and still wanted more— the city was a playground on permanent strobe effect, a wonderland of Technicolor delights. We danced like blue white fire despite the fact that our lives were dictated solely by the mistakes of our parents and disguised as ones of extraordinary privilege.

Before long, we ourselves were untouchable incandescent gold dust gods, foolish enough to believe that we could live forever with and within our bathhouse Garden of Eden, a white hot crack pipe fantasy world where Dionysius put crystal on his giant cock and fucked us for what seemed like an eternity of sleepless nights, where we burned with anticipation like a gasoline fire in a paper lantern Shangri-La. God’s sweat fell from his forehead to our lips as we savored the lemony sweet taste of freedom in our mouths...

My precious plant that didn’t take

2008-07-27T21:10:00.000-07:00

By: LDP

Each year I wonder,
How he’d look.
A seedling,
Injured when removed from his flat,
Killed when transplanted
into the dirt of this earth.

Death will leave its tracks

2008-07-27T20:59:00.000-07:00

By M. Plucky

Beautiful boney cheeks
freckles that peek unabashedly
young, curled around my thumb.
Angel hair, fairer than what's fair
and never there. Never there.

Fires start around your bed, I take a match
and lay them there to feed the too much need
that ignites the freckles that I touch too much.
I take them out and scatter them on the floor
to start small fires instead of starting a war.

A trail of drunken longing lines the tops
of chairs from her bedroom to her stairs.
I dragged my fingers there to stain them with
the drawing of her name that told my feet
which way to go: not home. Never home.

I will pull a book down off a shelf a shelf and graze its spine
until it's softer than mine and peels back the sheets that hold
all those words I need. I'll squeeze
the edges
til they curl. A world of ideas
spilled open
just for me.
And then I'll read the words, gulp them down,
their ripe and tender juices coating me with shameless hope
and healthy greed.
I will bleed along the pages, leave
a trail for you to read
until you find me.
Death beyond the stacks.

XaoS GENESIS

2008-07-27T20:49:00.000-07:00

By: Kalyle Schereer Samuel

In the Beginning there was XaoS and out of XaoS came everything. The whole universe and the galaxy were created by this spiritual being we call XaoS. XaoS is the entity of Creative energy from both forces of light and Darkness. XaoS then split into 3 different spirits. They names were Xen, Mithra, and Kezef. Each ruled a portion of the universe created by XaoS. Xen’s complexion was golden brown. He had glowing blue eyes and long wild glowing blue hair and he dressed in a Blue Robe and precious colorful gems as jewelry. Mithra’s complexion was Golden like the sun. With long wavy shining white hair and gray eyes. He dressed in a pure white robe with gold as jewelry. Kezef’s complexion was dark and he had long dark black hair and the darkest black robe with silver jewelry. Xen had the powers of Fire, Water, Wind and Earth. Mithra had the power light. Kezef had the power of darkness. Xen would go off creating more for the universe and keeping everything in order. Mithra and Kezef would constantly fight with each other over everything...

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Diner Parking Lot

2008-07-27T20:18:00.000-07:00

By: Andrew Glikin-Gusinsky

These Hudson Valley parking lots are always the same.
They're always dirt and gravel,
Mud and puddles.
In a month and a half they'll freeze over.
People forget that once you get fifty-five miles north of Manhattan,
You might as well be in Ohio.

Ohio has its charm, so people say anyway.
If it's anything like Poughkeepsie,
It's understandable why.
There is a comfort that lies,
Within the little houses that line the streets.
Their unassuming forms slumber lazily,
Their windows project soft, amber light,
Not unlike the jack-o-lanterns,
That smile menacingly from their porches.

"You got a light?"
One more cup of coffee,
To go with the fourth cigarette of the hour.
It's drank in the parking lot,
From one of those paper cups,
The kind with the pseudo-Greek motifs,
Which may or may not exist in Ohio.

A five ought to cover it,
Not much for shelter after all.
This diner is a modern oasis.
Its awning serves as a communal umbrella.
Shielding passing pilgrims,
From the cold October rain,
Which rustles and moistens the dying leaves.

Of These First Breaths

2008-07-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

By: Stephen Luke

We waited.
Your eyes closed.
Breath baited and my eyes -
Wide.

Unpolluted by even a sunset!
What I thought I thought - shadows...
Your eyes see only that is true.

All of this in a few first breaths.

Slowly a moon will come, many more to follow.
Know their light is refraction -
Your eyes as bright as the sun.
Chase that light, know nothing but its truth.

You are whom we hold our breath,

And you've already changed the world
With these first few.

The Peril in surpassing mediocrity

2008-07-27T20:04:00.000-07:00

By: LDP

It had to stand out
Why, she wondered,
Was in necessary for it to set itself apart?
Brighter, it’s color more true
Exquisite structural symmetry
Bordering just barely on the side of natural
Its petals soft, supple
Yet strong
Their velvety texture
Tactile to the human eye
The garden around it was more than adequate
But its presence nullified the other blooms efforts at beauty
This annoyed her
It wasn’t larger, or taller
Yet it effortlessly drew the eye
She turned her gaze away
Then turned back again
Still it appeared as an anointed soloist
Among a pleasant, yet ordinary choir
Singing with clarity, “Why be content with mediocrity?”
It pained her, this blossom
If it had stood out because of disease or lack of appeal
Her duty would be much simpler of conscience to fulfill
Yes, this flower angered her
It forced her to execute an unpleasant task
Her gardening shears glinted in the midday sun
Illuminating her target like a spotlight
It is too bad, she thought
She shook her head, clucked her tongue
Closed her blades
And lopped its head off

Beautiful Night

2008-07-27T19:57:00.001-07:00

By: Kalyle Schereer Samuel

I see stars of all colors clustered in the night sky
And worlds beyond galaxies far as celestial eyes
On this beautiful night as the moonlight comes to rise
And as this time of darkness converts to a time of heavenly light
To bring Gods gift of this beautiful night.

Celestial arrows shot by the angels of the night.
Streaming across the sky illuminating a sprits life
for they sing the songs of the creation of life
As our spirits glow with the aura of Gods great light
Reminding us that the night is the time when our spirit truly takes on life
As we fuse becoming one with the universe even far beyond our sight.
So we may join the universal soul of Gods everlasting life.

Flying with God our spirits will strive on this night.
For we have no evil demons to fight at this time
Because on this night God gives us a new life
As we become one with the Galaxy on this beautiful night
Awaiting to watch the sunrise as it brings on another beautiful sight.

Had Loved

2008-07-06T18:47:00.000-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

With the phone against my ear I stuttered.
Words would not come fast enough.
You doubted me. I doubted me.
You asked if I had loved him.
Had loved him.
Loved him.
Him.
If love kept a schedule with arrivals at 2a.m.
and departures at 9a.m. with frequent cancelations,
than yes.
You made me realized the truth I had been
denying my heart because it had already broken
and I thought that one more crack might break
it clean in two.
The myth of love was a lucrative tale and one I did
not want to associate with the past. I did not share the
tale with him because as much as I wished on my
favorite star in Orion’s Belt,
I knew his touch was just for fun.
My heart broke around 3a.m.
I couldn’t stop it. I tried so damn hard to break my
ribs open and to bloody my hands in efforts to give
you, someone I care deeply about, a whole heart.
A heart with pristine veins, healthy muscles,
and most importantly – no pieces missing.
But I couldn’t scratch away my skin fast enough
and I convulsed as the tears hit my hands and wished
again that you never asked if I had loved him.
I wished you had asked if I loved you.

DG

2008-07-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

By: LDP

The brown corrugated cardboard box arrived intact
Or so it seemed
Until he threw it on the porch
The smashing sound of shattered glass was startling
If it were breakable
Shouldn’t the box be marked fragile?
Examining the box
He saw it was free of warnings
Opening the box it was difficult to surmise
What had broken
The doll, meant to be a gift
Still exquisitely beautiful
Hair, strawberry blonde, soft and silky
Skin, porcelain
Gazing at its lovely face he watched the eyes roll
The color, still the vibrant green he was drawn to in the catalogue
Obviously, now lacking the stability
They were meant to maintain
He shook the doll gently
A rattling sound…
It is unfortunate, he thought
It wasn’t as though it was something he could repair
And he fancied himself quite good at fixing things
Taking a big black Sharpie
Marking a large DG on the outside of the box
He laid the box outside the front door
For the messenger’s return trip
No one, he thought,
Should have to keep damaged goods
But in the box she screamed,
“You broke me!
You wanted me and you broke me!
You were careless, cavalier,
You blame others for not warning you that I could break,
But it was you who tossed me casually aside,
Only to pick me up later thinking I might still be whole
Can you not see your part in any of this?”
Alas she was only a doll…
And her silence
A trait he found most appealing when ordering her
Was still intact.

2008-07-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

By: Dima Otvertchenko

We Are All Lighters

2008-07-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

By: Alwajihah

We are all lighters
waiting for matches
to match us to our skins
The paper
oh, it is rolled
but it will never
turn back to gold, no

Lets wait for the matches
because if we start
we will surely die
Let's wait for the matches
to flick and click and start
so we can lie, oh, lie
in the pockets and the drawers
of men

my eyes, they don't know what to see
like I don't know what to ask
or when to talk, or how to breath
when the smoke becomes me
The wick will quiver, shiver
in the wind,
I am half finished
can you restore me to my golden glory

Lets wait for the matches
because if we start
we will surely die
Let's wait for the matches
to flick and click and start
so we can lie, oh, lie
in the pockets and the drawers
of men

We'll set them afire
and turn them into liars
yes, we will change them all
And ashes, will be left
and there will be no one left
but us, in our flaming glory
We'll set them ablaze
and burn away the hate
Oh we will start
and we will die

Lets not wait for the matches
if we start
we will die
Let's not wait for the matches
to flick and click
so we can start, and burn the
pockets and the drawers
of men

The Pink and The Grey

2008-07-03T11:36:00.001-07:00

By Andrew Glikin-Gusinsky

A slip of paper, a vinyl seat.

Freedom lies within the dark waters that mingle with the bubbling amber.

The amber holds no truth however. It never did and there is no reason why one should continually look for it there, trapped within.

No, the truth remains locked within the burgundy tar that you will submerge yourself in once you reach the old ancestral spawning grounds that expelled you not nearly as long ago as you would like to believe.

You visit them often, trying to reclaim a sense of self that was ripped from you when you entered the world, when you stood among the Pink and the Grey.

Poultry Scholarship

2008-07-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

By: William Briggs

America’s largest protein supplier, Tybelt Inc., is helmed by none other then Kirk T. Sunbelt. In the last financial quarter Mr. Sunbelt made a record 35 million US dollars.

“Business,” he told his horse, “is doing good…..woahhhhh boy.”

So, when Mr. Sunbelt met Arthur Trent he was smiling and a little drunk.

“Hi, I’m Mr. Trent, Arthur Trent, from the AmPoultry Scerican Scholastic Committee.”

Mr. Sunbelt, looking up from his food, dropped his chop sticks, and smiled—making one eye merrily wide and other happily lazy.

“Pleasure, Mr. Trent, is all mine.”

Mr. Trent slid into the adjoining chair without pulling it from under the table and quickly wove his hands together and placed them on the empty plate before him.

“I know you are a busy man…”

“Guilty as charged, please produce my sentence!”

Heart Is Just Heat With An R

2008-07-03T10:11:00.000-07:00

By: Daniel Weatherfield Lichtenberg

I'm late for some bull shit something so I rush out of the house.
I'm a block off my place when I trip on a crack or a tree root or mountain of little not paying attentions.
And I look down. And I see that my sneakers are covered in puke.
I stand there for a bit and think about walking on.
Then I look down again and see one of my pant legs is covered in puke.
Then I turn around and think that Heart is just Heat with an R.
And maybe I was supposed to be late to this something.
And you know how long goodbyes are so awkward?
Like if you say goodbye to someone,
and then go onto opposite tracks of the subway,
and just awkwardly make small waves and smirks
at the other person
from across the tracks.
And then when the other person's train comes
I think how
it's good to be in love.
Even if I'm just fooling myself.
Even if I just like to use
love as a scapegoat.

Apostrophe to Drunk Villager

2008-07-03T10:02:00.000-07:00

By: Mary Li

"your country is so beautiful,"

your faces so refined in innocence.
rape me before the sloping hills
lie in mocking smiles.
she cringes beneath his thrusts,
flounders toward soldiers
slung artillery over their shoulders.

Hardly

2008-06-23T19:51:00.000-07:00

By: M. Plucky

I love you like I shouldn't.
hard.
with one eye cocked
for the cockroach
on the wall.

Chains rattle and
so does my breath,
uneasy and queasy,
through to the other side
of dawn.

I grab your jaws
with mine
and eyes lock
into battle.
I want to butcher
your lovely lady ribs
like cattle.

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Ode to James, Hydrocephalus

2008-06-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

By: Anya Bochman

There are tornadoes on the sun
Big as your head and yet
You'll never know because, for one,
the force of gravity is cruel; it bends our
burdens towards the earth, 'til all we see
is feet (is egocentrism strong enough,
and does the bending of our knees keep
this globe moving round its core, or are we helpless as an ant,
as the ants of Herodotus, oblivious to the gold before us?)
But I digress; they say when Helios was in the sky
your head was like a pane of glass,
your brain exposed like an ambered fly,
like wine inside a jug with your ears as handles.
I do believe if I could see your thoughts
I'd pin them like a thousand moths
Upon my sunless darkful shelf
So that, when pressing my skull
against a window, regretting this sin or that,
I could instead palpate the crevice of your mind,
Dark eyelashes over too-large eyes,
and feel within a long-dead space
a ghost of hope.

Personal Elbe

2008-06-23T12:42:00.000-07:00

By: Andrew Glikin-Gusinsky

Sometimes in winter afternoons, after your cup of coffee, you turn south,
Meandering downward along the main artery of town, sucking on an empty cigarette holder.
Passing Starbucks after Starbucks,
They are the sign-posts which mark the versts of the torpid journey you make towards your own personal Elbe.
You know, however, that there will be no Joe waiting for you, to offer you a Lucky Strike and a Hershey Bar.
You turn around to stare at it knowing that they will never let you cross to the other shore,
So you lean against the railing and watch the gray horizon and the ferries that go back and forth.
When night falls, you catch the One back to your bed on the hill, knowing that you cannot go home.

Free Tongues Abound

2008-06-23T11:37:00.000-07:00

By: William Briggs

In 2054 a drug was invented that inhibited the human tongue from producing speech. (Tests were not performed on animals due to recent "All Creatures are All Right" legislation.)

It was discovered rather haphazardly.

Joseph Zach Lieman was in the process of finding the cure for Oedipal lust when he noticed that his lab Males were having trouble speaking. He discovered that his testing humans could move their tongues but they failed to produce syllables that would later lead to words.

Failing to cure Oedipal lust Lieman lost his funding in 2055.

Oedipal lust continued to rage and all Lieman had produced was a tonic that rendered tongues, inclined to speak, useless.

To make matters worse his wife had recently died of cancer.

Lieman, deviled by depression, managed to write a brief article describing his new tongue bracer.

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In June

2008-06-23T11:07:00.000-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

1
I met a kid from Nebraska.

And he says he watches the freight trains go by. And he says he's gained 14 pounds from sweet tea. He says he can smell honey suckle blowing from behind his window and he read most of The Idiot during a dust storm and he hated the protagonist. His father makes pickles and literally sweats into the pot. His mother braids her long red hair every night. He says he doesn't understand what toxic means.

And I forget everything I've ever known about TriBeCa. And Happy Hours. And the Poetry Project. I forget free AIDS clinics. I forget gentrification. I forget the people I've loved who call themselves musicians. I forget my byline. I forget the way I got there. I just want to sit in the wind. I had met forever.

I never got his full name until I visited the cemetery.

2
Well, I am on Avenue A with a balding, missing-toothed New York Times ex-pat still boasting his one writing credit. "But now I'm a photographer," he says. I study his face and he reminds me of Jocelyn Wildenstein, a half-feline, half-recovered meth addict. I don't believe him. He's a fool. His eyes are sunken and his lips are pulled down, but he was in his mid-thirties. And his hands are shaking, and it's not because he's nervous. I fake an English accent and tell him my name is Emma. It wasn't half bad, but it certainly wasn't creative. He asks me where I lived in the East End of London, and I say, "Near the Water District."

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Trauma

2008-06-22T22:45:00.001-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

You shocked me and left me to deal
with the emergency crews and the police.
There were hundreds of survivors and
only one death in the ordeal.
You said your duty was to tend to those
hurt and who had a chance.
You lick my blood and rammed your
fingers into my cuts.
You slowly slid on your belly towards the
survivors and licked their blood and
gently rubbed salve on their cuts.
I tried to yell to you, to call you over,
I tried to sit up and announce my survival,
but the pain sealed me to the ground and
my eyes refused to open to the sun.
I was the only death that day.

the eyebrows

2008-06-22T19:55:00.001-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

the defendant came through the attic door from the roof
it didn't matter he had a restraining order
he preceded to shave his eyebrows in the dark
he begged us not to let the police in
he begged us to forgive him

the defendant gathered his collectibles,
my mother's jewelry, an old kitchen set
the clanking of worthless goods in a bag
i hurried my brother to put his shoes on
and quietly dialed nine one one
non emergency

we slipped out the door
and heard him from the bathroom
with an electric shaver
talking about whose fault it was
he had no money

i saw orange pill bottles and
dietary supplements and
an alcoholics anonymous book,
a bible
i saw his green eyes flash as i left
he had no eyebrows

i pushed my brother down the path
where he felt resentment i felt pity
and we crawled into a flashing car
where the police had me scribble down
our information and my brother had to write it
for me because i couldn't

and they parked behind a tree behind a tractor
and took him out in hand cuffs
for us to see
now we argue diminished capacity
when we found out he robbed a bank
and i never saw him again
just the shavings in the sink

four friends

2008-06-22T19:50:00.000-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

Three months ago Plato came up to me and asked how many
bundles of ribbon and flowers and I'd like, he said I would want to select
each color carefully and ask for just the right amount
he said, if you let it,
the world is gonna think you're dead

he said, follow his directions
four visitors will come toward your box:
intemperance, unrighteousness,
cowardice and ignorance, and they will
hold your hands
don't be afraid, ignorance only feels warm,
but your formaldehyde
might crack off
this is what you want, he said

i am in a coma
i listen to the pit-pats from down the
hall with the worn Victorian rug
I hear Forgiveness coming but he's slow
cause he's got nothing to lose

I didn't know he'd be here
and he sweeps right past the guestbook
there isn't a handful of scribbles
i wonder who saves this sad memory

i am in coma
and he sits with gentle eyes and
somewhere between empathy and pity
and he feels right
between warm and cold
he says he can't do a thing about biology
or any divine clock
i'll wake up on my own
as the charity-hearse pulls in

Plato's guests take leave
and i can't describe the temperature of being free

Bones

2008-06-15T10:28:00.000-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

There will be no time soon.
We will cease to exist and
turn to dust as we think.
Our bones will make no
difference to the dogs or
to the little children.
Mounds of dirt will replace
us and from heaven we are
force to hold our tongues
and answer your prayers.
The thoughts and wishes we
once had are coming into
our ears from foreign mouths
and are making us cry
because we remember
being naïve and careless.
Your selfish thoughts are
scorned, but listened to,
and we hope as you
spit your fowl words that
you are not spitting on the
dust that was once our bones.

Rain

2008-06-08T19:38:00.000-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

I sit in the most unromantic place I can find,
the bathroom.
I just put the seat down and sit there
with my hand out the window
to feel the wind collide with my fingers.
There is no romance in the wind,
no love, no desire.
There is no scent of the man
who I use to sleep next to.
There is no pressure of his hand on my waist.
The wind gave a new pressure –
the changing of direction.
Then came the rain.
The wetness reminded me of his sweat
and I can still feel his slippery skin.
So slippery it slipped
away from my hands long ago.
Into the rain gutter and gone.

deer heads

2008-06-04T22:42:00.000-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

there has got to be a can opener
somewhere in this god forsaken place
maybe it is in the porters closetor in a museum,
or somewhere public
where we may have left it à la un chien andalou,
i would like to, specifically,
hold it against your eye and clamp around the color,
and peel it nice off. my collection has seen
blue, green, blue, green
reduced to what people call art.
to me now you are just something i have hung,
you are the forgettable deer head stamped to the top of the wall.
you were right all along, your face is not worth remembering!
your face is not Sargent's whore and
it is not Courbet's stroke, it is not a bridge
becoming red with age, it is not a succubus upon the chaise longue,
it is not the hand of Gala at the windowsill.
but i can remember painting it with my finger tip.
all of you, painting all of you,
the finishing touches on the deer heads
down the hallway each a doe eyed,
a feverish eye, eyes with sorrow, lantern eyes,
all of you have become art.
it is loved still after destruction. the Courbets and Salvadors
and Sargents are remembered even when their frames burn away.

the new gala

2008-06-04T22:40:00.000-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

He left the bleeding Arcachon just as the
Germans came and he rested his head in Figueras and Port LLigat
It was the Stairway of Habanais where my alizarin red gown
shifted against brown stone in the sticky evening light
with my left leg up and foot cautiously balanced
(I may lose my footing if you prove men in Vicenzaare bees to flowers)
I can smell Salvador here, calling us ugly
with his brush. we are ugly flies caught in sap

Oblivian

2008-06-01T19:21:00.000-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

Wheels turning over pavement
Gliding to the speed where life is a blur.
Leaves are smashed and rats run away
While oblivion is the destined goal.
The wind forces the wheels to slow
But onward the foot pushes, onward.
There will be no stopping, no rest.
Not until oblivion is reached.
Until the end is near.

Nebraska

2008-05-02T22:30:00.001-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

This is how we sway when we're waiting in the doorway
of a freight train. this is how we sway
when we are caving in
and the hay is stuck wet in the folds of our elbows and knees
and we can't breathe because the air is too sticky and we're
too busy crying because we'll never come home
and mostly we're right because this is when we
ran away and got naked at 160 mph.
When you take me in your hands
and say you love me, kid
I come back with just that in your southern accent
and I do have a conscience because I feel bad that
you think it's endearing
but I figure if I fake the sound I can fake the meaning
you can gamble and lose
or you can win
but i'm all imitations

Masterpiece

2008-05-02T12:38:00.001-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

She kisses her hands
on the back and in the middle to be exact.
The outline and color of her lips
seem to bleed into her skin.
She takes a long moment to admire
the masterpiece she just created.
With a surge of joy
she prances to each of her companions
to show them her art.
All of whom she shows remain stoic,
eyes positioned forward with drug induced smiles.
It doesn’t matter how much she cries
or rubs her hand under their noses.
Their noses don’t smell.
Giving up, she marches away
angry at the heavens for cursing her,
condemning her to such company.
Who knew stuffed bears could be so boring.

Too Many

2008-04-27T22:07:00.000-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

There are too many, just too many.
The floor sticks to my feet as I run.
I take the floor with me as I flee.
My sticky, woody feet cannot move fast enough.
I want to stop to catch my breath but there is no time.
Frantic I search for a way to remove the wood.
As I pull, my skin peels away, but I don’t care – I can’t care.
I just need to get away.
There is no logic left for me to use.
Only irrational thoughts make sense.
I envision no finish line, only an escape.
Now with my feet bloody I continue to run.
Because there are too many, just too many.

white tie

2008-04-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

He stood there dripping and I figured I could get my fingers up under his ribs and string my teeth through his belt loops but the parents were all downstairs clinking wine glasses. We could not go down there. It would be the exorcist all over again and we'd stand and he'd get inside me at the piano and then they'd take us and bleed us and we wouldn't do a thing but gaze at one another from the beds and he'd tell me when his blood grew back he'd send it to the proper limbs and we would show them what it meant to throw a dinner party and leave a mess. Of course the dress code would be all white from head to toe and I would lead by example.

Gremlins

2008-04-27T20:58:00.000-07:00

By: DJ Hopson

You turned away from me
late at night in the train station
and you let my hand fall to my side.
The train was coming - once, twice
and finally through the third wind tunnel
my decrepit carriage came to a stop.
Half my smile told you half of the truth.

3am is late to travel alone
so you rode with me
to watch me and to protect me. I
never said I needed to be protected
from the gremlins living underground
where I was traveling that might bite me
and drag me away from life.

I told you with all five fingers to
go home, to look out for the gremlins
so they wouldn’t bite you. And
with all of your five fingers you
took my hand back in yours.

the epimenides paradox

2008-04-27T20:56:00.000-07:00

By: Lisa Marie Basile

In the cathedral, Epimenides disrobed for me and asked if I’d like an orange. They’re sweet today – from the grove down by the sea, and I said I’d like if he’d keep quiet. Don’t open your eyes when you lay in the sun, I ask. I want to see you as a gentle sleeper; finish your orange. Hungry and fast he chews just as the Father comes sweeping in and looks with wet eyes and lips to the orange and asks can I have a half. Mid-reach, the poet's hands fly and launch the orange at a porcelain bowl so that the Father turns and sees the shards; Epimenides stands nude in the yellow light and the oranges between his legs dangle as he calls toward the priest, You are a liar! you are hungry for not that orange but for mine and the light hit the porcelain bowl where the priests' reflection shimmered sadly as he bent to eat the orange off the dirty floor