Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

I make up
for my book.

Let others judge.

I have mountains
of words and
whole cities
of drunken verse.
My poems are
the lost and found
letters of madmen



Jan Oscar Hansen
Paris Mon Amour

I’m going to Paris in the fall, last time I was there
it was a June, I feel into the Seine when I waved
to a girl who walked on its other side. Two days
I hung on a hook behind a door that led down to
a wine cellar, drying out; people were rude to me
because I didn’t speak French and ever since I get
easily offended when I hear Parisians laugh.

Paris in September, is melancholia, I’m a guest at
a white wedding to a couple I have never met; yet
I’m worried I sense a Sagan type tristesse as when
rain fall like gentle sorrow, trickling down a girl’s
soft cheek; blue twilight and the whisper of fallen
leaves. What do I know? Whatever happens I must
be careful not to fall into the Seine



David E. Oprava

Shave, shave, why shave, I am an overgrown monkey with apeshit ideas walking down the street passing a fat lady with a little dog, she should eat that thing, fresh meat, people are starving in America! either chow the dogs or chop up the starving for other people to eat, it’s all just meat, would solve the problem of low voter turnout, cast a ballot or be shat out by someone who could use the protein, now that’s an idea, scribble, scribble, don’t look at me, I know guys who would buy those eyes and sell them to the Chinese so they can be bought back to medical schools for rich kids to do experiments on, dissidents, that’s what they call the cadavers that make the slab so Buffy and Biff can stab the shit out of it and say, professor, have you got another, I think I messed this one up, hell, I would sell my guts to science so they’d find the truth that I am the first man ever born with razor blades inside shredding my conscience every fucking day, see it all around, teeming with people who don’t understand their world, their lives, please, proscribed synaptic overload leaves everybody lying around trying to cope with quixotic crusades of corrupted cogitation, shut it down I say on my way to the chemist to get more milk of magnesia, but it’s not MILK, no it’s an aqueous suspension of magnesium hydroxide Mg(OH)2, but you know that, I drink the shit by the gallon because it soothes the nerves and loosens the stool, after all it’s about shit, the literal metaphoric symbolic and intellectual, shit. Name on thing that isn’t, see, I told you so. LOVE? Are you fucking kidding me, when have I not been shat upon by doves with tits and claws, or politics, or socio-economic stratification as the crap just settles to the bottom where most of us swim, shit, what about a beautiful day, maybe if you have coke-bottle glasses and don’t see the carcinogens in every molecule of bubble-ridden syrupy existence, I know, a rose by any other name smells just as shit, bred with thorns, without, smelling, non-smelling, red, blue, white, yellow, purple, pink, some prick sits in a lab and plays with the genes ’til it seems like the perfect flower, but where the fuck is the real thing? Gone, gone forever because we can’t stand the idea of brown spots on pears, crooked cock-shaped carrots and lumpy potatoes, strawberries that rot and mushrooms grown on shit! SANITIZED, do you even know what that means, fuck, san- as in sanity – tized as in zapped by some cosmic retard ray, first came into verbal play in 1836, sanitized, blasted into sanity, how fucking sick and naïve to think we can ever clean what is natural, we have been fucking in the muck for so long it is all we know yet we hide behind antiseptic preconceptions and lies, we screw, we’re born, we live, we die, don’t even try to deny it, it’s all dirty, and you know what else is, shit. God fucking damn it, it’s a shame I’m the only one who’s insanitized, you with me?



Howie Good

Prefer the effigies of jilted gods
to the dead from accidents,

the mottled greenish purple of an old bruise
to the dull shine of nightsticks,

the dumb-ass offspring of ashen mill girls
to a rusted-out, post-industrial moon,

the deranged and the merely troubled
to anonymous informers, special police,

the kind of crying that makes it hard to breathe.

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