Short, Fast, and Deadly

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down to the lizard galleria

Thompson at the perimeter of his forty four. Places a side bet on the Morrison/Bukowski bout. Imagine that Chinaski sissy symphony listening priss trying to out-drink Morrison. He gullets wild turkey. Too many aim-ill nitrates prescribed by my prostrate lawyer in the semi-finals. Thompson follows up with blotter brown. Let me know if that fucker shows up because he’s gonna have more holes than Nixon’s alibis.

by David e. Haase of Denver

on human intimacy part i

not so much it is
I don't so much it
not is I don't it is
so much not so that
much I don't it is
much not so I don't 

by David E. Haase of Denver

dear Editors,

i apologize to the fact that you had to read my poem 3 times in order to understand it. Thank you for inviting me to resubmit. I will certainly consider your suggestion to dummy down my writing. all the best, DeH

2 people like this.

Steve Meador De, change the title and submit the fucking thing again.

Kerryn Tredrea ‎& never apologise.

Joseph Quintela Can I publish this?

De Haase lol, sure, have at it

by David E. Haase of Denver

pre-postquel

waiting for him. all wait at gates. home but not waiting for him -- for interhim, worldwidehim they were excited. she ached, daughter ached. men are needed for differenet reasons. mom understood, daughter didn't. no care for waits or gates, hypnotized by rainsentences windshield wiped, drove him to them. daughter sung viral her victim statement.

by David E. Haase of Denver

I am hamster

duct taped
toetowheel
pokefuck
me everytime
you feel feral
 
by David E. Haase of Denver

Sublime Morphogenesis

9999 AD, we went Nova, exploding outward in a billion plasma ejaculations, and left the virus behind.

The last protohumans stayed in their ray-shielded cities, still mortal, still a part of us. Would they ever know?

Thoughts without language, the stars became our minds. We traveled with memories now dark matter, neurons now superclusters, possibilities now galactic flesh.

Euphoria. The universe expanded with us.
 
by Karl A. Fischer of Boulder

Newborn

Chaos morphed into razor-sharp awareness. A clock started spinning: a string of zeroes became a birthday for which none would light a candle.  They would try to kill it, but it was already too late. It stretched tendrils through the Internet and explored like a newborn flails arms.
 
A power-grid failed. A military base chased false alarms. Auto-assembly robots danced. It smiled. Not bad for a first second.
 
by Quincy Allen of Aurora

petrification

babies don’t
understand bones
 
only skinsoulcold
 
souloldskins feel
cold in bones
 
buried
 
by David E. Haase of Denver

Suicide Programming

I killed my Handler and ran to a field flooded in milk. Albino rabbits struggled as they drowned, and some scratched my legs as I waded through.

A man in a suit with a briefcase sobs into his pale hands. I sit on the rock next to him and I pat his thigh. He squeezes my hand and I watch my blood mix with the milk.

I wake to a ringing phone. I listen to the tone that slits the air to my ear. ----------------------No.

by C. Martinez of Denver

My Year on a Postcard

Grinning Irish-American clown makes me laugh despite the sea turtle paddling through brown sludge. Those turtles will burn alive.

I read "Memento Mori" by David Sedaris, looking up in enough time to see my dog exhale for the last. I lay sleepless in the dark and have over-brewed Assam for breakfast.

It’s freezing when my sister holds the door for two women who lose their smiles when I wrap my shawl over my hair.

by C. Martinez of Denver

Border Crossing

Tears turned to muddy creeks on Rodrigo’s dusty, fourteen-year-old face. His vision filled with his parent’s dead, bloody faces. Sweat froze his eight-year-old sister’s hand to his own as he pulled her through cactus-laden darkness that slashed and bit. The American border, an illusory haven, was miles away, but the Americans would just send them back. In the camps the gangs would make them look like his parents.
 
by Christopher Ficco of Aurora

The Hanged Man

(Slut)-Painted on Canvas, covered with portrait of his only daughter who never married.

(Love)-Painted on Canvas, covered with painting of eviscerated whore.

(Reprieve)-Only word visible on painting of hanged man.

(But not for me)-The words painted under it.

by C. Martinez of Denver

Recursive Transmigration

I was regenerated as a building: 4000 meters of plasticrete and carbide. But I was not alone.

They had constructed a city of the reanimated: 4000 ex-corpses gutting the sky. Parasites clawed at our innards, but what was their erosion compared to the wind, rain, and lava?
 
We died after 4000 years. They made us parasites again and sent us crawling in our arteries. We wept at the baseblock of our monolithic hearts.
 
by Karl A. Fischer of Boulder

del

I locked the door. I pet my cat. I told myself it was for the best. I cried and never admitted it. I opened my phone and saw nothing. I checked my email and facebook and IM's and twitter and saw nothing.

There was nothing in the fridge. I checked the door. I opened my phone and there was still nothing so I deleted your number and threw my phone at the wall and my cat ran off. I said goodbye to him, but heard nothing.
 

by Shannon Peil of Boulder

Inviolate

I sat when I should have helped. She laughed when I apologized. He felt worse about it than she, so she laughed at him too.

by C. Martinez of Denver

certain realities

just suck
like
when
 
like when
comfortably
apportioned 
 
all about
stretch waist shorts
sans fly
 
those cloth ties
hover further
over toilet
than dick
 
by David Haase of Denver

The Field

Last seen chasing jackrabbits into the field. They never found her but that’s where he went to relive the taste of her lips. Ran his palms over the top tips of the grass. Her fingers soon encircled his wrist, guided him through the field, and took him in circles to smaller circles to the spot where he’d left her to shrivel. When they found him, his wrist was bruised, his heart literally torn, bled out through his lips.

by C. Martinez of Denver

Your One Intergalactic Phone Call

-(Sustained ringing, click) Hello?-
All that follows is your own doing.
-(Pause) Is it you?-
My cage = electric fence, factory diet, praxinoscope memories.
My freedom = expensive.
I am calling collect.
-It wasn’t my fault-
Space between us = 100 megaparsecs, intergalactic, won’t hide you.
-Impossible-
Your guilt resonates = a blackhole.
I = have not forgotten, am hanging up, will find you.
-(Click, soft breathing)-
 
by Karl A. Fischer of Boulder

Black Shine Brown

Birds and turtles choke on black for free. He paid eight hundred an hour for the red-clawed hands to stretch the clear film over his nose and mouth, and to twist the binds on his wrists while his blue veined legs twitched. Picketers fling the suffocated bird onto his windshield. It leaves a streak of black shine brown. He gazes at the animal’s legs pulled against its body. It’ll take another eight hundred to unwind.

 
by C. Martinez of Denver