Brevity ― the ampersand, and period. Caesura
; fascist punctuation surrounds;
¿will syntax ever run free as good dick & barflies in the dark?
by Nicolas James Hampton of Kalamazoo
An Unorderly Occurrence Of Cheap Illuminations; 140 Characters Of Famous Last Words
The Fix
A man glances over at the 6 pack on the passenger seat. It’s a matter of abandoning the accelerator, braking & pulling off on the median for an imported beer cap that will not twist. The soft voice of a woman hawks an online college over the radio when the music’s over. Surely there is something in the glove compartment that will fix this.
by Mark James Andrews of Harper Woods
the last
sirens loud as clouds of asteroid heat. shrouded sheets mark a secular space. needles white as uniforms breathe cigarette breaks. corridor floors dripping dreams permeate. the souls have gone out through the roof. inside the cold boxes. soft as fur mittens. hold bones old as the First World War. black crepe will not shake or stifle expression. dig the ditch deep. lower the bodies down.
by J. Darrow of Rochester
Gas
Tapped out. Charged my gas. Out of nowhere he’s ripping the gas pump nozzle out of my grip & waving me off under the station’s canopy night lights. Filling my tank. PUMP IT FOR A BUCK. He could be spraying my face. This is no Edward Hopper painting. On this corner I’D LIKE TO HELP YOU SIR BUT I HAVE NO MONEY doesn’t fly. He’s getting my plastic slid thru his lips or the cheeks of his ass when the pump clicks off.
by Mark James Andrews of Harper Woods
A Walk at Seaboard Commons, Broken
Carolina cypress seeps its scent into the unusually thin air today. Some southern shitmouth is shouting, "Say sorry for being rude to me," at an infant.
"You’re sorry for what? For what? Say you’re sorry for being rude to me," she says, over and over again.
by Danielle Blasko of Detroit
The Will
Sheila zipped on the ugly 1980’s blue nylon pants, willed to her by a mother wracked with dementia. The trailer was hot in July and she could feel her humid body adhering to the fabric. The thin breeze of the fan blew through the stretched seams. Sheila ran her hands over the pert creases pulled smooth along the thighs and sighed. Strange to see the pants paired with a tangerine tank top.
by Sarah Sorensen of Mount Pleasant
.rorreT
by Mark James Andrews of Harper Woods
Cordelia and the Madman
It's hard to be torn from your book as a page in the library, hard to discard the silk that you've woven, hard to be Cordelia or an open tomb, it's hard to leave father, hard to hold onto what little is firm, the grasp is weak, the tidal shifts, one never knows who whispers into the ear of a madman, black-tongued, raspy and cotton-mouthed, the hard words choked, "Leave this place, there's no longer anything for you."
by Ethan Milner of Ann Arbor
Subconscious Sexy Sexabation
You rode a bubble up your dream and into bed. The words came out like stray vowels as your legs twitched.
Let's walk on sweat together like twin Jesus figurines and find a neon place that plays only Mingus. Let's discover the flavor of the moon.
I need you to bend me backwards, fold me up, stuff me into a French press, and squeeze some inspiration from me. Before you drink me let me have a sip.
by Shawn Misener of Lansing
Opening Day
When asked by the authorities, family members couldn’t say why she donned her father’s brown suede jacket, parked the pickup behind a stand of pines and walked deep into the state game area alone. Her rings, lipgloss and pink cell lay on the bed in a nest made from her hair. Days later, they found the sticky note on a kitchen knife -- just her mother’s name in a quickly drawn heart, nothing more.
by Janeen Pergrin Rastall of Marquette
Dear David Lynch,
Strange dream I had last night...nightclub Blue Velvet...sleazy music...single spotlight on me...open my mouth to sing....instead of words a small blue bird flies out of my mouth...and another, and another...hundreds and hundreds of small blue birds until there is nothing but blue birds everywhere...a world full of small blue birds...David, what does it mean?
Love, Isabella
by Steven Gulzevan of Grosse Pointe Woods
To Set a Tone
Hey Bro Boz-
I don’t know unagi from Adam. When I went there I ordered up something with duck in it cause it reminded me of czarnina & my old man always told me to go with what you know. If you do go to this joint sit close by the painting of the almond eyed doll painted pink reclining on a divan with a parrot perched on her left tit. The art-thing got the conversation started & seemed to set a tone.
Luck to you- Z
by Mark James Andrews of Harper Woods
Toasted
I taste Tequila the first time with my sister; lip its ripeness from a dirty coffee cup. I don’t need the chaser of diet Coke. She pours each mouthful with hands trimmed in diamond rings. The unpawned ones shine like new dimes. When she drinks Tequila she thinks of invasions. We talk about parents and how they went akimbo of each other. I stand and walk around the room. It’s warm in here. We are all lost.
by Colleen Kolhoff Little of Kalamazoo
Reconciliation
He rattles bourboned ice cubes
like dice, hopes she recognizes
their desperate Morse code:
baby, I’m sorry, come home.
by Karrie L. Waarala of Ypsilanti
EMPIRE & THE WEIGHT
EMPIRE has the need to flex the power muscle for the world stage, the Roman Colosseum, tanks on parade in Red or Tiananmen Square. Kid Rock at half time for TurkeyDay football sings Born Free; placards in stands spell Live United. The choreographed dancers hold in tandem one monster flag of amerika aloft covering the gridiron & smiling under THE WEIGHT, flown-in talent to the Rust Belt happy they have a way out.
by Mark James Andrews of Harper Woods
Working the Line
Red bulbous nose eased his paunch into his writing desk before a door wall open to the night. A full breast brushed his cheek as his flute of Cabernet was placed to his left. She turned on the stereo to Mahler’s 9th Symphony and exited. Moonbeams and a warm breeze came in from San Pedro harbor as he toyed with words, a story of his hard scrabble hangover mornings working the line at a St. Louis dog biscuit factory.
by Mark James Andrews of Harper Woods
Doing it in Prose
"This tight ass wants me to keep it to 420 characters or less," Gina said, pursing her succulent lips into a tight "o".
Johnny desisted ramming his head against the wall, "One of those modernist sons of bitches, I presume."
Gina raised her delicate white middle finger and touched the man’s name upon her screen, "His mama must have taken him off the titty too soon."
by Steven Gulvezan of Grosse Pointe Woods
Doing it in Prose (The Sequel)
Johnny jabbed a pencil into the big scab on his forehead, "He really accepted that thing you sent him, where you insulted him and his mother and all that?"
"You betcha," Gina replied, licking her lips, and then making a popping sound with her mouth. "His standards must really be low. And he’s probably some sort of sick weirdo creep. No wonder he doesn’t have his photo up on his site."
by Steven Gulvezan of Grosse Pointe Woods
Doing it in Prose (Gina’s New Crush)
Gina dug her finger into her belly button and then smelled it, "I can’t stop thinking about him."
"Who?" Johnny said, smiling as he slapped himself in the face--first one side, then the other.
"My editor--do you think he might be a serial killer? Remember that guy, BTK, bacon, tomato, and...whatever...SFD, short, fast and deadly...it gives me the chills all up and down my spine...it’s just so exciting..."
by Steven Gulvezan of Grosse Pointe Woods
Doing it in Prose (A Letter from Gina)
"Ow!" Johnny said, "That hurts!"
"Quit squirming, I must write a thank-you letter to my editor."
Gina dipped her finger into the open wound on Johnny’s forehead and wrote laboriously on the foolscap in Johnny’s blood. "How does this sound: ‘From Hell...’"
by Steven Gulvezan of Grosse Pointe Woods
