Art

Quit at Fifteen – David Lohrey

Chemistry

 

My feet always smell. That’s the problem.
My wife says I am running on fumes.
She says she is being asphyxiated.
She says she is choking. I say today 
I might die. She says, good.

Are we in need of a poetry of sadness?
I feel no need to seek out fellow martyrs.
Suffering all alone is the poetry.

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Art

Abusing the View – Marie López

most enlightened woman in all of New York

Recently, I thought I solved the riddle "the sound of one hand clapping" while observing an amputee. I had always thought that the sound of one hand clapping had something to do with redemptive salvation.

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Art

The Last Tourist – Mark Parsons

It’s hard to tell apart the children who
Arrive in the half light and file
Past where I’m sitting,
My legs spread
In a “v” on the floor.
Each child pauses
Long enough to crouch
Down, lean forward, and speak
One word
Just above a whisper
Into the wrinkled pate of my combover:
One word per child: cut, block,

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Art

Astronauts Lifting the Skin of the Moon – Réka Nyitrai

Funk 

The woman wearing a mask of roses is carrying a pork chop.
The dogs the clouds walk are howling ladybirds. 
That’s all folks for the pigeons to peck. 
They are all objects of adoration – says a visitor. 
While the clouds are moving like future automobiles
bold and reckless, the pork chop stinks and feels ashamed. 
The woman wearing a veil of roses 
gives up her son for adoption. 

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