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Dan Corjescu

Just Trash Talkin’

O! Valzhyna! Stop licking the old hanging balls of New York Like a pickle-fish you roam the sewers of this old whore I know it beats Dostoyevsky’s soup Or brown bagging it at Lenin’s tomb Sure, I know But look the cat walk is filled with cadavers the universities are bung holes and the Empire State Building is now the official pointer to a howling graveyard downtown you were born with one empire in a funnel now you explode like new Tuscan marble through the Holland Tunnel and that’s cool but… …psssst… …the U.S.A is a bad pierce job between two drugged out lovers aching to find their lodestones across badly stretched Californian highways Valzhyna your two labials are stronger than all of this… …and, yeah, I’m ...

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Dan Corjescu

O, the Anglo

O, the Anglo so keen, so sweet So aborigine amidst white wine and nuclear speak I loath the constriction of these, the boa-people Their livid lamenting their abrogation of chewing Their fraudulent doings all covered up in rhyme I hate these Anglos hiding in time Guilty of mind Rich in pocket Marooned on a Mars Rocket No dreams just apologies for intricate vacuity Just close shop unwind the watch and let go Continue: Just Trash Talkin’ ...

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Dan Corjescu

Hunger

When you're hungry/ You'll eat the paper and the pen and anything/ else/ you can write with/ When you're hungry/ poetry looks like so much filth/ Ham and potatoes/ look like glistening Gods

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Richard Fein

Halfway Between Harmony and Rome

My eye wandered for glimpses of passing ladies, my mind downright inattentive, my foot just a bit too heavy on the pedal till I rear-ended a HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS. Not a hard blow, more like a slap in the face, but it was a Jesus decal. The rear fender Messiah stared at me with a slightly dented right cheek. Our two gasoline chariots needed a soft shoulder and we found one, and there aside the expressway halfway between the villages Harmony and Rome the aggrieved cleric-collared driver perused his violated rear fender and wounded Jesus as whizzing traffic hummed like a muted choir. And I thought of ...

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Ray Succre

Russell Crowe is Crying

Another protagonist sputtering, straight through grieving and into a close-up’s solitude. Cry, chief. Puddle up. Grate my screen, make my wife cry. Show me a nimble fellow face, and turn it, twist it— don’t spare a single, blubbering lip-twitch. Cascade into flinches, then turn red… hold it… hold… there. Now steer into a little howl like a late night nor’wester.   Look what you’ve discovered: The story’s sad point, oh, right there, uncovered like an ancient button, swept clean of dust.   You’ve pressed it— the device triggers. Now the delivery can be prime, the drama propped, shoved, whimpering up where the score grants a deep appraisal.   Go on— cry those socket-faucets raw. Soon, a fade-out or another character will encroach on this moment to start ...

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Ray Succre

B-Movie Romance

A woman in a film lifts off her shirt like/ the first sharpened kid you saw pull his hair back/ to reveal a suspenseful face,/ memorably uncovered.

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Kyle Hemmings

From The Miss tHing Poems

The Man She Couldn’t Forget If he were light, he’d be a lotus petal. A fledging thought inside a girl, lonely on city streets, intuitive on mountaintops. Instead, he left a suicide note that read: The world is not a pond. I am a sturgeon. Everyone wants me for dinner. I’m not even that tasty anymore. I keep floating down. . . Miss tHing fishes him half-way from the water, imagines his eyes of negative space, the ferric taste of the stud on the lower lip, the body heavy, a gunnysack of body parts once fresh with her fingerprints. She decides: ...

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Kyle Hemmings

From The Miss tHing Poems

Musical Genius The song Miss tHing’s piano teacher gave up on her plays in the voice of a man with shuffling boxcar feet, a body of accordion-squeeze. She would love to pack this little man in her briefcase before going to work, or play a friendly game of hiding him in the closet, just so she can find him again. Unlike her first and second piano teachers, this man will never reject her. She loves his fingering, his timbre mastery in her 4/4 toss and turn nights. So far her tally is: marzukas-20, etudes-30 and then some, polonaises-18, preludes and ...

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Kyle Hemmings

From The Miss tHing Poems

In the restroom, Justin will cut off a lock of hair and give it to Miss tHing. Then, security will smuggle him out the backdoor. She will stuff the hair in her boyfriend’s mouth when he snores.

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David Wanczyk

Shine on Tu Loco Diamente

The only copy of the album they had in stock was gold-plated, the collector's edition. It was 32 dollars. I was 16 and mostly cashless. Those protracted riffs and synthesizer solos were about to be my one and only asset. I held that copy of Wish You Were Here in my hands for ten minutes, wondering what I should do.

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