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eo-03

TOMMY HILFIGER BREAK-UP

I fished out a pair of your underpants from behind the washer. A spider clung to the band. I set him free. What to do about your undies? Call you? No. We aren’t speaking. I could make a bonfire, eat Smores and toss them in. A purging. After I throw them in the kitchen trash can, I await the trash

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untitled

  • Azrathel 
  • 1 min read

CHRIST without HRT becomes CIS. But Christ is spelled with HRT, and thus, Christ is not cis. Ergo: Christ was trans.

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Secret and Hidden

The difference between secret and hidden.Let’s start with intentSecret is on purposeHidden may be squirreled awayBut often it is erasurelike the gaps in records that shapethe scope and bias of archives.Like “no women died,” the commenton NY Times obituaries omittingall kinds of nonmale, nonwhite people. Secrets come wrapped in colorful psychology,repressed, traumatic, foundational.They fester and corrode and distort,their impact all

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One of You is My Mother

I was born from a gossip spittle /My diet consists of eating trees / Flesh /And undoing advancements /I am a newer Medusa /Born with the proper eyes / but I choose the former stare /For tender strokes of madness comes from choosing /To do the wrong thing anyway /I was born from / Chaotic mouths /Their heartbeat resting in

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Bathing

I am sinking, and there is a watch party of women who call themselvesmy kin placing bets on how good I’ll look at the bottom, or if the weightI’ve put on will push my body up to float. Surely, there are better ways to teachdaughters how to christen their own water. The daughters who do not survivebecome the rain. There

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Female Friends

I watch Joyce fail to light a cigarette against the wind. Little sparks erupting then disappearing in an instant like dying fireflies kept in a jar. Her back is hunched over. Through her sheer top I can see every vertebra of her spine and I have the strange desire to lick them all to see if they taste different from

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fever dream

a fever dream or hallucination of a woman young sliding down ward in to dark ness until she hits awakens just as they pull her from the furnace this is not hell? they pour what’s leftover into an urn wipe the spillage onto the floor like dinner crumbs smack her down onto a table in a strange room leave her

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AUTHORIAL VOICE

The writer, aware that the telling of certain stories in the third person might, by another writer, be handled effectively as neat confessionals, sometimes laments. It would be good if she could walk into the world naked, saying “I am that I am!” like some deity. Having lost belief in selves as focal points some time ago, now she can

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Excoriate Yourself

August 15, 1999: Densely were the belongings contained within Pauline’s cramped room. The shelves were stacked with the writings of such authors as Dworkin, Genet, and Freud, alongside her cassettes of various exploitation and avant-garde movies, in turn beside her cassettes of rock ‘n roll favorites plus the oldies. Beneath her bed—a loft—was her desk, upon which her computer was

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Egg Punk

Don’t fuck with meI’ve got nineteen teeth(and they’re not even mine) I’ve got slapstickfeeling and rippedback- I’ve got a rhythmof sicknessand twodead cats. War I love you:I’ve learnt to acceptthe bomb,and now it’s kind of fun. I’ve got differentideas for what societyshould be and I promise you-none of them involvecommunism, mostly justsitting in bedand drinkingnatural wines- what I’ve doneto myself,with

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Viator

  • Mona Mehas 
  • 1 min read

I miss your structure, your repeating lineHave you left me forever? Will I runLike a wild dog on fleet feet, yellow eyesTerror-filled, intelligent, all-knowing? Longing to count your mislaid syllablesI miss your structure, your repeating lineFreedom enclosed, the cage left open, youElude me like dreams before the ink dries. Blossoms open my throat, my mind; expandMy true vision, uncover my

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TRAVELING COMPANION

Consciousness slips into my dreamsand imperceptibly awakes mebut the night leaves a message for meas I venture into daylight.My hand prods for a black coverednotebook. I ink down something.Now an incipit marks the glisteningsurface, like the vanishing printsof a sleigh dog on snow. A few wordsto be repeated like a nursery rhyme.A few letters, the name of a stationwhere the

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Candid Pessimist

tell me, how does one see pastthe incumbent colossus of dreadreflected on the lens of the camera,blackened with remembrance of the present,its thick and deceitful frame tell me, how does one carry one’s body from a distance,my psyche scurrying ghostlike onconcrete pavements in remission:I cannot hold hands with the worldfor I come hand in hand with myself shall I set

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The Melancholy of the Sunset Overdrive

So that the Earthian skies are simply more than distance away from this grounded body, I feel the need to have my physical form consumed by evening light, so that such six o’clock radiance may decorate my tropical skin with slants of gorgeous sunset hues. And let me, in turn, use those vague and far-off colors as a new identity

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burning haibun for penelope

  • Maya Walker 
  • 2 min read

in a far away time there is a mother, a wife, a daughter. beside her a son, a hero, a warrior. in some distant place his father, her husband. the time is unknown. war is fading from our senses. i rewrite, respin: war is its own myth. the mother fights her own battles, the hero rejects his place as the

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Statues Can’t Breathe

I woke up this morning with a statuelying on my chest. Maybe it was one of the Roosevelts,or just a president, someone like that,he had a mask onand also it just wasn’t the best angle,plus I’d gone to sleep thinkingthe earth would stay where I left it. And I’m not sayingwe all need to be cement,I’m not some secret pigeon

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Some Borders Should Not Be Crossed

Lifting my head above a wall to peek at a Drive In Movie, I grab a wire, discovering pain in my fist. As I crawl under a fence to visit cows, my consciousness is pushed down through the top of my head, the pasture forced into a dream. From an ink brush, the Zen master draws the paper’s electricity, but

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REM Transport

  • Gary Duehr 
  • 5 min read

The sleek white vans started to appear after 2 a.m., their bright hoods flashing like teeth under the string of streetlights. The whir of the vehicles that of an insect’s legs rubbing together. On the doors in slanted Arial, indicating forward motion: REM Transport. The whole neighborhood dark and still as the vans circulated from street to street, hesitating for

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On the Crooked Path

  • Mark Tulin 
  • 1 min read

There is no need to hide my cock,to compress it, regret it, to tie it upin a knot—to sleep in a bed too small,to wear heels or a puffy hatto make me seem tall. There is no need to fake it, althoughI prefer cherry red lipstick,dresses that are too tight,revealing the bulge in the night,the platform shoes that make my

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Three Poems

ARACHNID A Naiad ran an acaciaranch in a candid cardiacad. An anarchic arch-cad, Ihid rind in hard china chain.Acid rain char’d cicada. I add: nadir + nadir.I ran an air raid radar — a cinch.Chic hair and hard chin, a Rich Dadcan cancan an archaic aria rancid. SEASHORE As a hero shears a horse’s ass, erehe hear assessors erase a

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Nocturne

  • Gale Acuff 
  • 1 min read

I died in a dream last night but roseagain when I rose again, I guess – Irose at dawn as usual, light rarelylets me sleep, and got dressed for work and ateand left the house in the billowing lightbut it was dark before I made it homeso I had supper and watched some TVand fell down dead again on the

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A New Haunting

She had been haunted like this in ceaseless cycles. Her body hadn’t been hers for a while. But the thought of disassembling, fiber and atom ripped to fragments, was unnerving. A threat of decomposition and collapse. This possession followed the path of the previous rounds; a pursuit of roots in her mind, shooting out greedily. Dirt under her fingernails, picked

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Faults

  • Zach Murphy 
  • 1 min read

You were born into chaos before it became your shadow. You learned that your first heartbreak didn’t unequivocally break you, it just prepared you for the future. You wondered why the stars preferred not to be seen, then you understood them for retreating behind the shroud. You longed as your dreams danced in the distance, only to taunt you in

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