Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Two By Gregory Zorko


Hairless poems in the shape of wet yams. Like collars on the throats of girls, forcing them to read. Emptying their stomachs until they hurt with an infinite night. With steel pipes and the noises of a crowd of tobacco. Because I am captive in the pleasures of dust storms, bring me my friends and acquaintances.


Blue salted oceans surrounding lovely Yemen. How many times must I say I don’t know you? For you to roll up and finally dry in my restless mind. Dark as you are I’ve never seen you. Girl shaped like wine, I never wanted you. You refuse not to belong in these snow piles of poetry, ill-fitting and absolutely real.

Monday, July 30, 2012


you're a phantom pulse against my fingers. i'm on fire with it (turns
out i know how to burn; my skin can melt, peel, grow red and shiny
hard once more). a bit adrift without you- i'm a compass needle,
you're due north, all that jazz. lay on my back all day until the sun
bleaches out my eyes and imagine clouds painted onto the sky; feel
things i probably shouldn't- like veins expanding, shadows playing,
stars pulsing. filling the empty cavities of space in between. i'm
just playing cardiologist. pretending i can touch hearts; make
something useful of them. but you can't keep alive someone who is
meant to be dead. bedroom-blues into transparent eyes. you don't look
at me, you devour me. i could map the bumps of your teeth all
afternoon, but your chest would still be constricted from dust motes
and the words you wished you'd said. i've shed so much blood in your
name. sometimes i wonder how well you'll be able to remember my face.

if two selfish people can love each other.

i am the empty cavities of space in between. the light steals my edges
away but never quite reaches to where i really am. leaves me waiting
and waiting and waiting and waiting and

--Alyssa Moore

Monday, July 23, 2012


this is not empowerment it's enchantment
this is a basic hunger
this is me owning up to my self absorption
this is the same day over and over again

i am clean
memories are not drawn in chalk
they are solid
i can feel the weight
i can feel everything

your fingertips
your bottom lip...

there was no first time
there was no last time
blood is thicker than water
it won't stop raining

you will never think of this the way i think of this
though we are doing the same thing

i remember
when words were bonds
and now we tie things in bed sheets

there is no recovery time
there is no redemption
i swallow your secrets
and wait for them to burn me alive.

--Karissa Satchwell

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

The Artist

I cannot possibly think of you
other than you are: the stranger

of my curiosity. You stand there
in the field, gorging on

conversation like Bateman’s first
confusion between consent and

rape. Oh bedroll, be hollow,
and be moderate. Do not

excite me more than you
have to! I must distort forever.

--Andrew J. Stone

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Hate Child

This unwanted obsession you spawned
in the darkness of my mind
is screaming.
Suckled on crumbs of distortion,
the child is bloated with self-loathing.
Her cries plead adoration
to ears that fall into blindness.
The fading voice feigns unconsciousness
as this unwelcome offspring
is aborted with the rusty hanger
of your indifference.

--A. J. Huffman

Friday, July 13, 2012

Saturday Afternoons

On Saturday afternoons
my brother and I go to Wendy's
and look for heart shapped chicked nuggets
in our buckets of mystery meat

I show him how to bite them in half
splitting our own in twos and fours
to remind us of my other brother

                     who's living in that heaven
                     he used to have faith in

I sip bubbles of caffeine, remembering
him, and ignoring the reality
of having a brother underground
while another splits hearts in half

                     while giggling.

--Emily Ramser

Thursday, July 12, 2012


I’m strewn around this place limbless legless beheaded 
but my heart remains in my flesh, and my soul... my soul
lingers over the remains of this unfeasible torso as I lay across
this slab, my viscera a buffet of fragments resembling colours in a
Monet landscape portrait all puree as if someone had stuck my brain
into a blender creating a splendid vision locked in transgression as
the sea of tranquility etched in the moon brings about events of
cataclysmic proportions within the relentless of my dismembered body
because it desires to embrace life and death, to envelope around the 
necessary of our counterparts, to guise to heed to respire to savor...
oh how that sea of tranquility awaits me awaits me awaits me 
just to be the death of me the death of me the death of me...

--Devlin De La Chapa

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

A Bottle Room Can Save A Marriage

Dad taught math at the high school for almost thirty years before a student finally sporked him to death in the cafeteria. He bled out right there on the floor. Thirty cell phones recorded the scene, but no one thought to call 911.

I was at college when it went down, and if I have the timeline right, I was getting fucked in the ass when it happened, first time. It's funny, me and dad both bleeding out of holes on opposite ends at the same time. I guess true opposites would have been say, his neck and my feet, but Davey Braddock wasn't going to fuck my feet. I'd have let him though. Some people are into that.

The bottle room used to be this little room where we had an electric train set up on top a broken ping pong table. We sculpted mountains out of chicken wire and paper-mache, painted them rocky brown and textured them with plastic pine trees, painted little buildings and the tiny model people. The train set was up for about a week before Dad threw a fit and smashed it all to shit after he couldn't paint a smile on one his people. He said the brush was “fucked”, that he was “fucked”.

At first it was just Dad, he'd finish a bottle and smash it against the wall of the train room, the shards of glass like an icy winter storm blowing through our little town. Dad and Mom yelled at each other a lot less after that and even though I woke up at least three nights a week to the sound of smashing glass, it was better than hearing them say they were going to kill each other. Neighbors didn't call the police anymore, and in bed I cried and jerked off to the sound of breaking glass, so happy to live in a normal family, finally.

Me and my little sis and Mom, we started smashing bottles in the room too. And after a time, not just bottles, but any kind of glass that needed disposing: big pickle and applesauce jars, spaghetti sauce jars, light bulbs. We switched from cans and plastic bottles of Coke to Mexican horchata and pineapple soda, just for the glass. We couldn't get enough. Even our friends started bringing over glass. They'd walk through the door and put their toll into the recycle box and Dad's ears would perk up as he sat in his chair in front of the television, sucking down another bottle, finally in possession of a noble purpose beyond forgetting.
Dad even got rid of the old light fixtures and put in buzzing fluorescent banks throughout the house. We all squealed and cheered as the long tubes burst and popped like lady fingers. We watched one another, happy, the live bulbs painting our teeth green and exposing every flawed inch of skin as we loved like a family should love and made memories worth keeping.

We went on a family drive every Sunday, stopped at every tavern in a twenty mile radius, my sis and me digging through the dumpsters and collecting every bottle, running the ones with liquor inside straight back to Dad. He polished them off while he and Mom sat quiet on the hood of the car. They watched us, arms around one another, swaying to mellow hits of the seventies on AM radio, the music crisp and clear and tinny through the car speakers. Then, smiling, my sis and I climbed back into the dumpsters, fighting off the raccoons and rats for the prizes. There were so many prizes, so many treasures.
We found them all.

The bottle room was kept closed unless we were smashing. The smell inside was sweet and rank and it attracted fruit flies, but each smash night dad used his hard shoulder to force the door open, his grunts and the sound of glass shards sliding over the shredded carpet giving voice to our anticipation.
Night after night this happened and it got to where Dad needed my help with the door because there was so much glass inside, and then Mom's help , and then little sis. We should have expected it, but eventually we couldn't budge the door given all the glass wedged beneath it. We looked to Dad for a solution, but it was like the stuck door turned something off inside him. He looked us over and it was like he was seeing the door and us for what we were, an ephemeral distraction from a hard truth. And just that quickly, it was all over.
The rest of it continued for me and Mom and sis, the collecting, the Sunday road trips, but the room stayed closed and the glass filled the garage and the staircase and the hallways, and more and more often I was woken up by the sound of screams and threats and tears. I'd masturbate to the memories of smashing glass and wish to hell my own piece would just crack off in my hand so I could throw it through my window and jump out and run away forever. It seemed like such a real possibility, but the futility of such a wish dawned on me as I shamed into my stiff sock.

I watch the videos from time to time, alone with whatever boy is snoring next to me on my futon. I watch on my laptop in the dark, watch my dad there bleeding, that white spork sticking out of his neck and I wonder if he was thinking about me and my sis and Mom. Did he have any regrets? I hope he didn't, but I know better. Was he scared? I hope he wasn't. He made us happy sometimes.

--C. S. DeWildt