Monday, August 31, 2015

What lies ahead

The Fortune Cookie Writer

When Confucius died,
the discount fortune company
hired his young counterpart,
Confusion.
On time Monday morning,
Confusion came to the office
and sat at his cubicle.
He set out his calligraphy set
and rice paper strips, but Confusion,
not a fan of Chinese food,
could not think of short phrases.
He tried to Google, but got
stuck on Facebook.
On Tuesday, Confusion left the desktop off,
to write. But because
he was more of an illustrator,
he drew pictures the fortune company
did not like.
On Wednesday, Confusion came to work
with two lists.
He figured, if he chose a common phrase
from one and a common phrase from
the other—and mashed them together—he'd
have a worthy fortune.
So Confusion began,
"You will step on the soil—
Like many butterflies."
"You display the wonderful trait of—
Inkjet speed."
"You will always have good luck in you—
Personal plumbing affairs."
Because Confusion always envisioned himself
an illustrator,
he had not bothered to study
English. And he was too
proud of his foolproof method
to consult the company editor.
He believed his fortunes were profound
because,
"Being an able man—
There are always."
Confusion's cookies were distributed to
buffets across the country.
Most complained, but the youth,
high on their new non-conformist
social power, kept the cookies coming,
and Confusion as writer.
After all,
"Beauty is various—
Apples appeal to them."
They made enough sense, they said,
and just less than too much.
So, Confusion turned the
desktop on and
threaded another fortune into its
cookie. He believed,
"You are soon going to change your present line of life—
To work."
For he had just arrived.
His lists were long and interchangeable,
and his inkwell was full.

by Alyssa Nedbal
in volume 4 issue 1

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Monday, August 24, 2015

drink up

The Savior Which Comes in All Flavors

do they have a gatorade for the apocalypse?
do they have a gatorade for global warming?
do they have a gatorade for the upcoming
hurricane season? do they have a gatorade
for if you feel cheated and taken advantage
of by a manipulative father figure? do they have
a gatorade for a dysfunctional family unit you've
been trying to escape from for so damn long?
do they have a gatorade for every long-lost
girlfriend and best friend who has done you
wrong and don't know what you did to deserve
it trying to get closure? do they have a gatorade
for a broken heart and empty soul? do they have
a gatorade for one of those soulless devil telemarketers
who won't stop calling you during dinner on the phone?
do they have a gatorade for a crime of passion after
you're just done stabbing your girlfriend? do they have
a gatorade for psychotic hallucinations a who's who in
who done it? do they have a gatorade to try and dredge
up good and sentimental memories? do they have a
gatorade to try and help you forget it all like that
holy river which runs through the slums of india?
do they have a gatorade for all those horrible
gatorade commercials which rattle and fuck-up
your senses and equilibrium when you least
expect it and are like triggers to your post traumatic
stress disorder storming right out
the television against your own will and volition?


by Joseph Reich
in volume 4 issue 1

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Monday, August 17, 2015

-

with apologies to Ezra Pound
The objectification of these women in the crowd—
petals on a wet, pink bow-chicka-wow-woooow

by Simon Mermelstein
in volume 4 issue 1

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Monday, August 10, 2015

What Lies Beneath

False Advertising


Girls and boys are full of tricks to keep each other guessing.
Boys use words to convince girls that they should start undressing.
But girls are armed with squishy bits they decorate like cakes,
with lace and padded patterns; stripes or flowers, or snowflakes.
Wrapped like pretty presents, girls present themselves with style;
at the tightness of their t-shirts boys begin to drool and smile.
Remove her shirt, unclasp her bra, and boys, you'll likely find
much smaller breasts than you believed—but still, you shouldn't mind.

by Kelsey Dean
in volume 4 issue 1

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Monday, August 3, 2015

Baking in the Heat of Summer

The Height of the Delicious
with apologies to Oliver Wendell Holmes
I cooked some dishes once on a time,
  In a wondrous hungry mood,
And thought, as usual, guests would say
  My dear, these are so good.

Courses rich and courses smooth
  I nibbled as I stirred all,
Albeit I'm a slender gal
  And never wear a girdle.

I called my husband and he came;
  How kind of him to do so
Our contract doesn't specify,
  He's Friday to my Crusoe.

"These to the freezer," I called out,
  And in my humorous way
I added (he just loves my puns)
  "There'll be Jack Frost to pay."

He took the tray and I watched.
  Oh, this is far too riche!
Pushing aside the wrap, he sneaked
  A fingerful of quiche.

He smiled, then finished: on to ragout
  Herbs and wines and meats
That downed, he loosed his belt again
  And attacked the next of treats.

With baked Alaska gone, then mousse,
  I heard a sudden split.
"Is it waistband of arteries, darling,"
  I cried As he tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye
  I nursed that dyspeptic man
And since, I've never dared to cook
  As delicious as I can.

by Estelle Gilson
in volume 4 issue 1

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