Bruner Street -Peter Richards
February 26, 2013, 1:41 pm
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When mom fell down the stairs
smashing her hip into a thousand tiny bits
she changed the whole world
with a moan that went through the house
a moan that never really stopped moaning
but took over her voice so now when she speaks
when she says SWEETHEART GOD IS REALLY VERY BASIC
I imagine something a long way away
something slow and dead that’s limping
down her long dark hallway of a throat
but I don’t think about it
when the mouth on her face opens and closes
and I can tell by the way she looks at the window
that God’s swollen from thinking so hard
her eyes go bad as I carry her
from one chair and into another
she needs seven primary colors of chair
she can’t walk at all from one that’s white
one that’s brown and another that’s brown
but leans all the way back so she can stare
sometimes all day long at what the rose
still looks like



Special- Lauren Ireland
February 26, 2013, 1:36 pm
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The Mid-Atlantic states are the sexiest states.
Where are you going now.
Out past reason. Richmond Virginia.
Out to where consonants lie down limp.
I am hating you from very far away.
Have you ever balanced a biscuit on your lap.
Have you ever experienced prolonged inappropriate touching.
Oh no you must be riding the bus.
Philadelphia Pennsylvania. New York New York.
I am not saying anything that bad.
My wrist hurts from masturbating.
The dirty window can keep my goddamned face.



The Study -Molly Dorozenski
February 26, 2013, 7:34 am
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I remember what it is like to be disarmed.
The doorframe packed with snow.
Thick leather bellows to fan the flame.
Everything worth learning
in a new kind of dictionary.
When I take note of all the people around me
I panic and my chest feels cold.
Pretty girls everywhere are crying.
I am like a stick insect or a druid
peering into the spyglass. Inside the book,
humans are breathing their wet breath.
Doing and undoing their buttons.
Writing confidently with Bic pens.
Flushing spectacularly clean toilets.
Comparing birthmarks.    I remember you
in the early days.      Ragged notebook paper.
Doorbells.      Nakedness.      Disaster.



Tonight the Dead are Nothing More -Britton Shurley
February 25, 2013, 7:35 am
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Tonight the dead are nothing more
than they always are.
They are brown scraps of leaves
clawing in the gutters.
They are a family’s faded bed-sheets
left flapping on the line.
They are an unseen squall of dogs,
the ones that wake you nightly,
barking sharply down the alley.


Room 512 -Molly Dorozenski
February 23, 2013, 7:39 pm
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I hold everything too dear. Everyone says so.
Lately, I’ve been having some trouble sleeping indoors.
I never know what shoes to wear to bed. I can’t imagine anything
good enough, but I also feel funny with bare feet.
We talk about replacing my hands with branches.
I take a walk and I think I see all kinds of forest animals
in the city. A deer I guess, or something quick.
It is because of what I am either reading or eating.
The deer takes the blame for all my mistakes.
The deer runs into the intersection and slows the traffic.
I tried to mend all the old recipes.
I use an actual telephone, and it rings and rings.
Someone (not me) invented the idea of horrible praise.
Now I compliment the worst things and it is not my fault.
I recommend sad movies that make people want to have sex.
I tell everyone I love the city. I suggest a sequined jacket.
Then everyone is telling me I am pretty in ways I do not like.
I check into the hotel where terrible things happen.
There isn’t even a room key.
You just take the elevator and close your eyes.



Conversation in the Hills of Southern California -Britton Shurley
February 22, 2013, 1:36 pm
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He said: the bougainvillea’s pink, paper petals.
And she said: the night’s bright scent
                            from an orchard’s orange blossoms.

He said: a ripe avocado, spread like butter on toast
                     in the morning; my fingers and the hint of ginger.
She said: a handful of freshly picked berries, my lips
                     stained red by their juice; my tongue and its sweet-bud tip.

He said: all those peppers, all those chilies in the valley;
                      all that flesh growing hotter every day.
And she said: the taste of peaches. You’ve forgotten
                           that fruit so sweet, the way it drags the tears from your eyes.



And then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur
February 15, 2013, 1:26 pm
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Poet, comma. It is thus the delay,
which is also a beginning. That we can link eyes
across her time-space continuum is another hyena.
The female elongates, bares fangs, and a trash
compactor recycles. Hyena gives
in the recycling fashion. Phoenix, no more false
flight from holes; now balloons eat at decay.
Hunger denuded us, too. But will you give
up your death for me? With surgery, I outright hollow
the monster to breathe across windows. I don her hollow
whole. She writes back in the pauses of haze.
Her and her tragic magic. We are all cross-dressing
in tiny wings with the machines of bones to go on.