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Irreversible Rupture

Implosion. Words blast through us like splintered wood or water flowing over a creek in quiet tones, nothing trailer park or back alley about these words when they combust inside us. We don’t let on that there’s a hole getting larger inside us by the second, like newspaper burning or a wave just before it hits. We stare at each other, still and deadly as the eye of a storm. Internal organs incinerate.

by Meg Tuite of Santa Fe

IPA

Instrumental Phobia Antidote. Indelibly Palatable Appeal. I Plead affection. Immeasurably Profound Advisor. Intelligence? Possibly? Absurd!

I Perfect Attraction. Idiot Penetrates Agreeably. It’s Popcorn Again. Indecisive Pendulum Argument. Indefensible Pickpocket Attack. Interrupted Psychotic Assault. I Preen Attractively. Instantly Pacify Admirer. I Perfect Amatory. I Pull-out Amicably. Inevitable Pass-out Amnesia.

by Meg Tuite of Santa Fe

Suburban Saturday

A perversion of Ireland-green lawns, pot-bellied monoliths to dadhood grunting, pushing lawnmowers like workdays, bald spots, ruddy, brick-red skin, plaid shorts, hairy, yellow legs, moccasins with veined feet squeezed in, straining like chronic arthritis, back and forth, listening to the Cubs lose another one, while wives, old china tucked away behind glass, run around in housesacks, dusting away years of silence.

by Meg Tuite of Santa Fe

All You Need Is Words

She suffered from too many words and an inability to wrangle them. Words bombarded her brain with the frantic energy of an electronic disco. Loquacious. Surfeit. Why? She tried to obey minimalist ideals and they still assaulted her. Incessant. Onslaught. Character and story mattered most, and yet she couldn’t turn off the spewing words. Logorrhea. Yes, that’s what she had. A word-diseased mind.

by Shannon Wendt of Socorro