Monday, August 25, 2014

Thirsty?

The Deserted Amusement
with a nod to William Carlos Williams
Forgetting is a kind
        of choice, although
                it occurs in the dimness
of an aniline past.
        It is like standing interjurisdictional
                between Juarez
and El Paso, two choices
        with a third,
               the water below.
Flossie is on one side,
        floozies the other.
                That which we were meant
to suffer we already have, and those miseries
       have been witnessed
               by the vulgar moon
as was the crooked flower
        which calls this climate
               its own.
If a man chooses according to his need,
        he will not choose.
                Rather he will sit
mid-bridge
        with a margarita and think
                of music, of home, saddening New Jersey.

by Jerry Bradley
in Volume 3 Issue 1

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Monday, August 18, 2014

Not our kind of school

Now Scheduling Shadow Days
Sign at Luther North High School
If your days are simply too cheery and bright;
if you're coddling a sunburn;
if you crave a vestige of your self;
if your naked hands yearn
to give themselves over to puppet art;
if you've a mind to discover
what evil lurks in the hearts of men;
if you long to loaf, loiter, or lie in wait;
if you wish to trail on the sly;
if you've a need for cool comfort;
if you love the 5 o'clock hour;
if you dream of a constant companion;
if you've an ambition to be your own sundial;
if you want a respite from clarity,
we can pencil you in.
by Yvonne Zipter
in Volume 3 Issue 1

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Monday, August 11, 2014

Moonlighting with Parody

We Make Drool
with apologies to Gwendolyn Brooks

     Canis lupus familiaris.
Several at the Golden Kennel.


We make drool. We
Pack rule. We

Meet mutts. We
Sniff butts. We

Chew nails. We
Chase tails. We

Howl moon. We
Sit soon.

in Volume 3 Issue 1

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Monday, August 4, 2014

With Living Comes Dying

Epistle to a Shadow-Tailed Traveler

Dear squirrel on the sidewalk,
drawn out like a comma near the Capitol
Sports Bar and Night Club,
your head turned as in slumber,
it seems I may be your only mourner.
You may have preferred
your brethren in their furred coats
to bear your pall.
But I see no sign
of their gathering,
no keening mate
prostrate at your side,
not so much as a leafy shroud.
The sparrows might be supposed
to contribute a threnody,
but there is no pitch pipe
to help them find a note of sadness.
Let this, then, stand as your obituary.

There is the matter, also, of a eulogy.
I would deliver myself of it thus:

Squirrel led a happy life, if all too fleeting.
A bon vivant, Squirrel loved a fat acorn,
the thrill of high-wire acrobatics, a good scamper.
We shall all miss the cautionary flick
of his ample tail and his nervous chatter
about the impending approach of Dog.

Amen.


by Yvonne Zipter
in Volume 3 Issue 1

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Monday, July 28, 2014

word wars

Courage (or Foxhole's Morale)

Here we go!

Here we go!

Here uue go!

Here ueu go!

Here yeu go!

Here you go!

in Volume 3 Issue 1
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