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D. James Quinn

On Baptism

I am eight. I believe in dinosaurs. I love dinosaurs. Dinosaurs, like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or extraterrestrials, are huge bulging fantastic green creatures that can squash buildings, eat whole villages, and make a lot of noise. Dinosaurs are cool. Dinosaurs are so cool that I have to know everything there is to know about dinosaurs— all the different kinds, whether they are bipeds or quadrupeds, whether they are herbivores or carnivores, whether or not they had feathers, which ones fly, which geological timescale they come from and especially, when all these values are added up and considered, which dinosaur ...

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Terri Witek

How to Build a Homemade Phonograph (Ariadne and the DJ)

                                                                                        For Erik DeLuca 1. You are making a funnel but don’t go in. 2. Roll so one end’s wider.                        Do I tape this thing? 3. Yes. Now pierce the small end     w/ your needle. 4. Allow half-an-inch     to stay on the eye side. 5. No, it shouldn’t move.     Tape. 6. Snap a pencil in half.                        In half? 7. That’s the tone arm or base     (let’s call it the base).                       Are you in a car? 8. Yes. 9. Duct tape one pencil half     (eraser end up)     to the cardboard square. 10. No, so it stays straight up.                       Where are you going? 11. OK, take the ...

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Johnny Damm

Editor’s Corner: Stalking History on the Hank Williams Death Ride

In a quiet residential neighborhood of a small Alabama town, Georgiana, a white-paneled house bears a banner proclaiming itself, “Hank Williams Sr. Boyhood Home & Museum.” Inside, a back bedroom wall is devoted to photocopied newspaper clippings concerning the country singer’s death and funeral, as well as a crude, hand-drawn map showing the route of his last ride. This cross country road trip also features prominently in another room, one devoted to a large, handmade quilt entitled, “The Story of Hiram Hank Williams.” Towards the bottom of the quilt, a small panel offers a crudely stitched image of a blue ...

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Terri Witek

At World’s End // Double Album

1. The hemispheres, parting equatorially, deflate in darkness, cool, then spin. “Don’t follow me,” a last, pegleg pilgrim mutters, purrs or hums. What’s next? “Donna Summer” bolds the signage at one oasis, formerly Antarctica, no one reaches. “Air raid,” hisses the space around a central glinty totem who, classically aloof from me + you + her + him but doomed to hear it all again, turns and turns like any god faking rescue or couvade.   2. No strobe from the second lighthouse which, since waves and world have fused, ditched its keeper. Are there natives? What would anybody breathe here, fossilized, as they seem to be, in black macadam (feel it give)? At least what we loved lies here together. Unreachable. But something ...

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