Monday, March 23, 2015

A sad kind of funny


at my funeral
i want it to be
something like
a theme funeral
like maybe an
all pirate funeral
and everyone's
gotta dress like
a pirate or slut
or fare maiden
and use those
pirate and slut
and fare maiden
accents gotta
get really loud
and raucous
off some real
poor rotgut
a fight
or two
break out
and decide
whether to bury
or forget to bury
my ass every
one drive home
drunk as skunks
every man for himself
still in their eye patches
and pirate costumes
have to not be a
total asshole or
grownup and
drive home
within the
speed limit
so the only
ones if they're
idiots take out
and then like
some absurd
and psychotic
surreal chain
letter chain
of command
have another
one with a
similar like
theme maybe
perhaps more
like super


Episode Zero

one day the whole
world's gonna just
explode and it's
gonna all be i mean
we're all gonna be
on a big flatscreen t.v.
all perfectly prepackaged
and wrapped up in a box
sticking out of a shopping
cart pushed by a big piece
of white trash at walmart...

in Volume 3 Issue 2

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Monday, March 16, 2015

Get Ready for the Festivals


If Lady Macbeth had the advantage of an automatic washing machine
How different the Scottish play would have been.
There would have been no need to consult witches on the brew
Required to remove stubborn blood stains and make a kirtle new.
The Chamberlains could have been framed for Duncan's murder,
Hands washed and clothes round the washer without a murmur.
No nightmares on the battlements, or falling out with Banquo
Just watch the drum of fabrics swashing to and fro.
Macbeth could load the drum or his good lady,
Then relax with a glass of wine and not look quite so shady.
Perhaps a rub with soap or a biological detergent
Would stop MacDuff returning from exile resurgent.
It is a shame that Glamis, or Cawdor there might be
Didn't have a washer from Amazon or Curries.
So the Lady wrings her hands at some imagined blood clot,
Sleepwalking to the bitter end with, "Out, out damn spot!"
by Clint Wastling
in Volume 3 Issue 2

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Monday, March 9, 2015

No Jazz for Us

We are Really Cool
with apologies to Gwendolyn Brooks
see also: We Make Drool
  The Polo Players
Seven at the International Polo Club Palm Beach.

We're really cool. We're
going to Stanford. We

go to bed pretty early. We
are heteronormative. We

sing barbershop quartet songs. We
drink vermouth. We

like Michael Bublé. We'll
live to be probably about 80.

by Ron Riekki
in Volume 3 Issue 2

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Monday, March 2, 2015

The World's a Stage

The Opossum Takes a Bow

The actor's actor
I've been called
by hungry critics
quite enthralled
at how I drop and
seem quite dead,
then rise again
and live instead.

I've learned to act
and not to run
or turn and fight
the stronger one.
I've found it often
more than smart
to act, pretend,
to play a part

even if the part's
a corpse.
Soon predators
grow very hoarse:
They growl and bark
and plead to know
if I'm deceased
or breathing slow,

if what they sniff
is living stuff
and not some old thing
dry and tough.
I close my eyes
and lie so still
apparently quite
more than ill,

until I'm sure
my enemy
has wandered off
to scratch a flea.
Once more I've died
and lived again,
a part not written
with a pen,

a play no famous
writer wrote
with lines no handsome
actor spoke.
When someone says
the word "Opossum"
he thinks of something
odd, not awesome,

though what is stranger
than to sleep
while foreign noses
make their sweep,
then wake up new
and bright and fresh,
a soul still living
in the flesh?

by Nels Hanson
in Volume 3 Issue 1

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Monday, February 23, 2015

Long Winter Showers

Twenty Minutes in the Shower with a Migraine

and my mind turns to 'serpentine.'
That is to say that I begin mulling
over the origins and uses of the word
rather than my brain becoming snakelike.
But my mind has been rather serpentine
now that I think of it, weaving through
the crabgrass of my subconscious,
darting from birth dates to the circumstances
of my latest speeding ticket to recipes
I've dog-eared that I would love my
fiancée to experiment with.

But what
I'm really interested in is why the makers
of language, whoever they may be—
I imagine spectacled cavemen pointing
at daisies and mimicking thrushes
while bigger caveman do useful
things like spear deer or crush gravel—
decided we needed a word for something
that resembles a snake in physical
attribute or cunning. Why not another

I believe us as humans kill
many more things before it has spent
its usefulness than there are windy,
twisty things; we abandon dreams
and responsibilities at the first sign
of a flaw with the same destructive
impulsivity as firing buckshot into
something that broke its leg. So it stands
to reason that they should have come up
with a word to describe something that
resembles a horse long ago. That music
career of yours sure was horselike.
One bad gig in Houston and you
sent it to the farm. Sure there is 'squirrely'
and 'ducky' and 'mousey' but the simply
addition of the letter 'y' to the animal
name displays an inherent laziness
that, I believe, retracts from the
word's effectiveness.

The problem
with the word 'jackass' isn't that
it's the wrong animal to describe
someone that lacks intelligence. It's
the insistence on the name-caller's
part that this person is a jackass.
The metaphorical use of the animal
is so easily refuted that the intended
effect oftentimes rolls off the person's
back, so to speak. Well, I do not have hoofs
and I am not carrying large bales
of hay and water over my back,
therefore I must not be stupid or stubborn.
But an adjective like 'jackassentine'
would surely do the trick. I'm not
saying that you are a jackass, just
that you resemble the animal
in demeanor and idiocy.

by David Walker
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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