THREE WORKS by Z. MARGARET

Internal’s House

 

(media res counterpoints)

“Show me someone who doesn’t warrant inspection and I’ll grant you your hormones,” the father says.

“Oh and which sadistic pill is that?” the daughter screams.

“Hey now, knowledge is not the answer, we both know that. Perhaps a little tipsy in the granulated downtime, but that’s all, I can assure you.”

“Did not!”

“Um yes, did two. Two pills with one swallow.”

“Have you even been bickering with me? what do your words—uh!” flapping hands.

“I see it as kind of like those days where when the day begins, with a sort of groggy eyesight. The first thing you hear from your mother’s mouth is—hey, woah, where do you expect you’re. Stop, okay—the very first noise you hear is some insect-y reminder from your well-intentioned mother, that the garbage disposal ate your garments. Or even your undergarments, like panties, and she forgot—hey, where.”

“F-you!..and hey, in case you didn’t know, plants have hormones too!” the daughter projects over her shoulder, down and out the staircase.

(out the door with her)

(back to the father, portrait)

“You know, I never dreamt about notebooks or that kind of thing, mainly (melting.horror.). But it’s all working out fine right about now. Really. Not so much as a gaper in the sky tell you the truth,” he pauses, waiting. Continue reading

“FROM ANALECTS: INCONSEQUENTIAL SEQUENCE” by R

Conception

She loved her eyelids – silk curtains that moved like wings. She clenched them down and cast herself a soul of darkness with lids for skin and womb, and unveiled it to the birthing sight of its host-flesh in a mirror.

 

Reprise

His dying vision was a lyrical edit of his life. He coughed a tiny laugh at this vision’s attempt to make culmination of conclusion, resolution of ramble into the abyss.

 

Salomé

On Salomé’s arms were beads that jangled as if their music had authored their movement, her body cascading with their rhythm through a looped dance of sound and steps through this hoop of cause and effect. Continue reading

FOUR POEMS by THE KNIFE CITY BOY

Butter wasn’t on sale that night

when i put it in park i pressed my face into the steering wheel and shouted at the car. said it just doesn’t know and “no!” the lady nearby – out on break – puffed at her cigarette a few times. somewhere on the moon there’s a face that saw all of this.

 

 

Pretending it’s all cool

at my second yoga class ever, and I really want to go home and listen to something like “Even Flow” very loud. just a big rock song which once stood out as something, yet now exists as that old worn out thing we’re all trying to walk away from because it’s become comical. there’s a chance I can pull something new out of it, find the thing it was and maybe still can be. just have to make it loud and throw off the shirt and allow myself to hang with it. think like Eddie Vedder did in the music video where he’s hanging upside down at the side of the stage. Continue reading

TEN POEMS by MARCUS SLEASE

WARRIOR OF LIGHT

Chinese stars in my sleeve. Nunchucks in my backpack. I want to shoot fire from my fingers and become invisible. In America they show me hot dogs. Good hot dogs turn the bun pink. In American they show me baseball. The ball slaps the leather. I like the sound but not the action. In America they show me trucks. Old trucks are curvier than new trucks. Five-Alive in mother’s basement. Plastic gold sunglasses for the sun. I am a warrior of light. Continue reading