sure! it wouldn’t hurt to include an english translation for our followers tho!
NO YOU ARE THE COOLEST THING EVER CREATED
- Josh Raab
There is no need to fear the lightning in New York City,
shoulder to shoulder with scaffolding and fences.
The metal and concrete,
roof decks and penthouses,
will catch the weight of the sky
should it feel the need to fall.
The city’s grid and deadbolts protect you from the unplanned and they damn it.
They put whim in a cold mauve filing cabinet to protest the unmanned planet;
they find the fruits of youth and attempt to can it.
But out deep in the forest
the lightning is so possible,
the trees so wet and waiting,
your death so near,
and all other things so very real.
You remember that all of the energy in the sky,
under the weight of an angel,
or for no reason at all,
might empty into you.
Josh Raab called us from Santa Monica, CA.
When Your Hair Was Still Long
- ZOOEE GHOSTLY
That humid bedroom
of English painters,
of Chilean romantics
in a language I can’t understand
The animals kept survey;
dreaming of your legs
where my tongue
had found itself yet.
this one Gainsbourg.
you longed for Bridgette,
I called you Bonnie
and we lay broken
on the ashburnt carpet.
I was not jealous of
that southern one
that boy my brother;
watching his hands on you
hearing you gasp
and watching you wither,
though I did find myself disgusted
the texture of his tongue
and the shapes of his genitals
if you may prefer them.
How foolish a creature am I?
How lovely a thing
we are in the morning,
and windowed cigarette,
vines born as legs
and another torn bit
of golden foil
I’ve repeated my praises
please know I meant it
and understood you
as a rarity,
a being that evokes
a wolf in the night
I went wandering.
on this morning
an autumnfaced thing
of yellowteeth grimace,
and you my hands:
that throats Van Gogh
from an Underwood
if only for a shaking sigh
before you collect your things;
When that time comes
I will accept it
but for now I am yours.
(You’ve seen so little
a form of loneliness
of few friendships,
but I hope
you may look past it,
(explore the unflesh
form of this):
that I remain here
when it would be easier
ZOOEE GHOSTLY called us from Denver, CO.
- Susannah Richardson
When I was five, I asked what to call you, and you said daughters don’t call their fathers by their names. Call me Da—It’s what Irish children do, but I didn’t know that then and you didn’t tell me. Never one for explanations, I never found one after you decided this world wasn’t yours anymore. Other kids used to think I had forgotten a ‘d’ when I wrote about you. Other kids didn’t know what to say to a girl with a dead dad. Now I drive your old battered Lincoln and only ever look at one photo of you. Young smile, dark hair ruffled back, wearing burgundy corduroys and a suede jacket. A perfect stranger. I make up a different claim to every lover who sees it beside my bed. You’re a guitarist from some band, a TA from some class a few semesters ago, a friend of a friend, a real nice guy, really. All the other pictures of you are put away for good and no one ever asks about my father.
Susannah Richardson called us from Chapel Hill, NC.
The Whale Can Join But The Squid Is Only Allowed To Watch
- J. Bradley
I like my sex like Bushwick,
lose myself in you as a tourist
The repo person rubs gloved
hands, staring at my tenuous
authenticity. What will I pawn
to maintain my street cred?
Every episode of Girls
is a chapter of the soon
to be popular children’s book
Where The White People Are.
I’m sorry I don’t know the best
subway routes. I’m not Park Slope
enough for your love.
J. Bradley called us from Casselberry, FL.
Give Me At My Hand 0f Course All the Time
- Dena Rash Guzman
Give me perfect hope if you have perfect hope.
Give me a book you wrote, if you wrote a book at all.
Give me a tissue to wipe clean my grief or if you can’t,
give me a cotton handkerchief for my mouth to ruin.
Give me money for new lipstick, if you have money.
At my hand is a bone-handled magnifying lens.
At my hand are the keys to the universe.
At my hand is the gift of queen bees being born.
At my hand is my other hand. Your ring is there.
At my hand is your opposite hand, sleeping.
Of course, I don’t mean to order you around.
Of course, I have no right to make demands.
Of course, I can’t make you do this.
Of course, I tried to force it.
Of course I did, for years.
All the time we could have played house, we played war.
All the time we could have had babies, we cheated.
All the time we could have kept together is gone instead.
All the time I misinterpret people’s expressions.
All the time I think time doesn’t exist at all.
All the time I am wrong.
Dena Rash Guzman called us from Boring, OR.
- Mat Gould
has just pulled up in a small mid-sized car
a young couple, they might be hipsters
she is wearing rubber soled rain boots and carrying a plastic tool box
he needs help with the monitors and speakers
they leave to come back later
she sings softly avant- garde of passing by and passing on and something about despair
he strums a broken guitar, hums staringly solemn toward the bar or the aloof barista
and pushes buttons on the keyboard that is otherwise without a pilot
set off to the side
behind them, a few cords leading to the noise
there are empty chairs and not so many others in the standing room either
they play on
sheepishly happy without applause
a pillar of static in between songs-
Mat Gould called us from Zionville, NC.
- Sara Khayat
We sat on your
porch and lit the
years on fire. Burned
them to the filter and
then to the ground.
Far too reckless with
the fires that we started
but you better believe
we were burnt out
or put out
(of our misery).
The years are
or the amygdala
waiting for you to
want them or need
And then the light
on your porch began
fainting in and out of
consciousness and the
years began wilting and
wrinkling and the time—
Oh the time it passed by us
like a speeding car. We felt
the motion, helpless broken
down on the side of the road
with no place to go but
Sara Khayat called us from Los Angeles, CA.
the problem with believing in angels
- Andrew Hill
the problem with believing in
angels is that invariably you meet one
and she has Malibu Barbie’s tan with
the IQ of a plastic chair but you
just don’t care because one look and
you now believe in God
and you may be screwed up in your head
because you sat next to that oddball kid in seventh grade
on the yellow bus with wheels spinning out gloriously
who huffed paint and invited you over one day to huff too
and three weeks later you were a sick thirteen year old
suffering fainting spells from paint thinner high
this is when the visions started, scenes played out in your head
of loaded guns misfiring into pots of coffee, drenching the Folgers freaks
with caffeine and whatever the hell else is in coffee and coffee pots
this is when you started drawing, writing, and defacing books in the public library
not just any books, children’s books, as if you wanted an entire generation to grow illiterate
and as troubled as your childhood seemed and seems and will continue to seem
Ken’s wife - beach edition - stares into your eyes or maybe you stare into hers
because a chair is hard to read even when
you’re in love
Andrew Hill called us from Austin, TX.
we have two spots left in our schedule for the week of march 3.
call and wow us.
- Chelsea Hodson
I hung my friend on the tree as a form
of preservation, an ornamental way of looking
at her from below. I was in the mood for worship
I confessed everything, forgot to use my stage name.
She knew the actual me, firing range old man playing me
that record in secret. Maybe I meant to give her my real name
dared her to blackmail me, give me something to live—
I shut up when I heard how my voice sounded. Somehow
somehow I gave her all my power somehow she
lives each day not using it. I told you
she was lovely beneath her dress I was low
on some bar unfit for this bond & I knew it. I knew
if I passed my friend down as an heirloom
generations would keep her safe, her eyes make
themselves valuable. You are sparkling
I said placing her on the branch, captive
applause sounding green. You are
my best friend—as soon as I said it I knew it
was a lie, I didn’t need tenderness, I needed to be a letter
soaking in watercolor, hey what’s it like
to be above me? Taut bows old arrows aimed at the idea
of my friend’s DNA braiding itself up into myth
& pseudonym. My curiosity killed my desire
to decorate itself. The tree looked like I’d loved it.
Chelsea Hodson called us from Brooklyn, NY.
To Convince Myself You Were Gone
- Paige Cerulli
I canceled your subscription to Writer’s Digest
and when asked of the reason for the cancellation,
told the woman with the overly patient voice
that words weren’t cutting it anymore.
I stopped driving your car around the block
every weekend to keep it turning over smoothly. I placed
an ad in the paper and sold it to a man in his twenties who needed
something cheap but solid for grad school.
And when I’d given your clothes (most)
to Goodwill, and donated your books (most)
to the library, and paid off the last of the bills,
no longer sang along to your CDs on repeat,
had managed to stop listening for your footsteps
on the stairs, for your whistle,
the phone rang and before I could reach it, you came
flooding back to me:
Hello, you’ve reached…
We’re not here…
But we’ll get back to you.
Paige Cerulli called us from West Stockbridge, MA.
It’s Not Exploitation if the Gist is Rueful
- RC Gray
It’s late, I said, that’s why I’m writing you.
But the room is empty,
and you’ve never been in it anyway,
which makes this feel selfish.
Capitalizing on our bungled chances,
the recent across-the-table glares
that screamed, Jesus Christ,
how can it still be you
And how we used to be—
or rather, how I remember us.
Idiot kids in the South, burning
through daylight like bottle rockets.
Our confessional timing
an Abbott and Costello routine:
frustratingly cyclical and off.
It’s late, though, and I’m tired enough
to admit the real mistake I made
was loving you and knowing it.
Of having the foresight to recognize
what deep love is in a small town:
a shackle soldered shut,
the kind of cloistered irreversible
that rips everything after apart.
RC Gray called us from Los Angeles, CA.
like a canker it came running
- Christine Tierney
that was the spring she’d decided. a plan unraveled from inside her. she tricked all the mirrors. nicked them with kitchen knives. made parts of her pay. she came close to lopping. grabbed fistfuls of droopy hip and just squeezed. there was so much shoveled in that begged to come out. it wasn’t supposed to last. but what starts out as seed, (even sickly, spongesoppy seed) blooms. it got so bad that the knives rebelled and dulled. she was forced to use her teeth, even the yuckmucky rotten ones. teeth against glass? but when her teeth were all gone, paired down to grim nubs, she plucked out the bones in her sore and sorry mouth. one by one she washed off the ticks of meat and dark moussey cake. dried them by the mushrooming fire. she spent more than a fortnight sharpening her bones into stickpins shaped like her anger. it was fun. it was yummy fun. then one afternoon, when the dastardly world was at work, she jabbed each and every one those bones into her fatty, fatty heart.
Christine Tierney called us from Boston, MA.