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/06/03/2009/ Memories of Water: Louis
Bourgeois I jumped backward out of the
skiff and ran at top speed, forgetting where the wharf ended and the water
began, and finally the water covered me, and all I could see was the
dissipating orange rays of the sun. |
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/03/29/2009/ Two Poems: Cameron
Aveson It’s the sound: the sound of it, the rattle and reflection of it as it shimmers between quartz and silica. Four Poems: Trevor Newberry From
inside the womb, I hear them cooing
over me, who's yet to be born still, and I want to dig my
malformed fingers into this suffocating lining and pull
as hard as my arm will let me.
I want to warn them. PROOF THAT POETRY IS, AT LONG LAST, DEAD AND GONE
I love the hell
out of you, reader, and I wish my publications were only printed in the print-versions, but everyone knows how effing expensive vellum is these days, so maybe
they should
start thinking all mise-en-page, gold leafed indigo-d illuminations of poems by, like, monks or whatev... I'M AS TIRED OF WRITING ABOUT SEX AS YOU ARE OF READING
ABOUT IT I'm tired of how thick-cut pomegranate makes me think of
your spread legs. And I'm so over how when you stand in your little
bikini with your feet in the sand, horizon at your back, I want to pluck you like
calendula and eat you. A CRIPPLING FEAR OF SHARKS, ONE
WEEK AFTER TWELVE-YEAR-OLD STEVEN
CONNELLY SLOWLY BLED TO DEATH IN THE OCEAN BECAUSE HIS RIGHT LEG AND LEFT BALL
WERE BITTEN OFF So I punch him in
the dorsal and it flaps flaccid for a moment but stands upright again, mocking me,
giving me the shark equivalent of The Finger, and like a fat kid with a mouth full of powdered donut,
the shark replies, Say it don't spray it. We all gotta go sometime. |
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/02/17/2009/ FOUR POEMS: STEVEN
KLEPETAR Until some golden ladder bends and every angel dances wing-wild in soaking moonlight, I will drink my fill and make a meal of the stars. FOUR POEMS: JACQUELINE POWERS What else is there to do? The problem was always how to let go. Your camera hungry not for truth or words. It's not what you see, it's the after image that refuses to let go. |
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/01/10/2009/ FOUR POEMS: PHILIPPE CASTAGLIOLI Ah, Franz! How does one become without truly realizing it, a man made out of words and images? One day, you know it, you accept it, you even celebrate with a strange smile this certitude. LESSONS IN MONEY AT AN EARLY AGE:
ALLISON PEISERT Her wisdom came through in her words to keep it outside of me. Good advice for a girl of any age, so I keep remembering. FOUR POEMS: ANDREW HOWES You there long-bodied children, with your soft serve and your marijuana cigarettes and your long nights working, Where do you go?
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