10 year old mutt

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All that barking you would think you were being abused. Thinking your owners didn’t treat you right but I know that’s not true. They have lived next door to me since I was a little kid and so have you. Everyday I see Jan come out and feed you, and then I see Frank taking you on walks but it never seems to be enough for you.

What’s got you all riled up dog? The constant need to be heard and frightened for no reason at all.

Aren’t you worried you’ll lose your voice? Suddenly your throat will just give out from all of that loud ruckus and you won’t even be able to moan.

What will become of you then?
Would it kill you to be calm and collected for one day so I can get some peace?

There is nothing out there to harm us in this neighborhood, and even if there was you would never harm a soul; we all know you Charlie. You’ve got a hell of a bark, but what’s a bark without the bite?

Menmaatre Seti

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Who made you?

Who cloaked your flesh in stained coffee gravel?

Who pieced your squinted monolid eyes apart

bridged by nose and brow?

Who splashed tiny suntanned freckles

against your cheekbone?

Who molded your lips,

two honey tinted poets

engrossed softly together,

embraced by words

recited smoothly like a kiss?

Who gave you that smile

etched finely upon your face,

like the sun peeking below the clouds

and smog before it sets?

Who took the time the chisel muscle

finely beneath your flesh?

Who sculpted your face

to be the exact replica of the Pharaoh Ramses?

Who tooled your calves

and carved the simplest arches

and docile dimples hidden mildly

against your flesh?

Who made you into a man?

One Week Later

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Some plastic essence,
demolishes day’s facticity.

The rest, as they say, is history,
a cold, cold history of doubt and regret.
The solid fists of the sun repress
an anesthetic rain
over a land stung with drought.

Meanwhile, I’m feeding
on paradoxes boxed in a shouting
match and still growing hungrier,

now lunging toward
a patchwork blockade with a flame
in my palm. All sense of calm is quelled
in the haze, swept away
in a thick river of violence
and dumped on a lonely shore.

I’ve waltzed with my share
of cloudbursts, and at worst,
they were dreadfully slow,
and left me fixing to flow in the heat.

But then what? Crutches,
agony, and blistered feet.

Now, so it seems, my incurable
tunnel vision has left me dumb,
depraved, and I no longer care
if the light at the end is the light
of day or the light of an oncoming train.

This is a fumbled verse preceding
a desperate refrain,
a canvas framed with nothing to show.

-r. miller

The Dirtiest of Words

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An accidental collaborative poem written entirely in text messages
between Wandering Savage and Holden Lyric.

Happiness, just take a seat.
I promise to keep you entertained.

Oh happiness if only you knew how
great I’d be at giving you a lap dance.
You’d stay seated longer.

Happiness, if only you saw the way my pupils
dance when you fill the room. Your holy
hallowed presence makes me whole.

Happiness, I wish you’d look at me with that
fragile, elegant smile coupled with that oh-so-perfectly
timed semi-rehearsed hair toss you used to throw at me by
the lunch tables.

Happiness, name your price. I’ll pay cash I’ll pay an arm and
a leg, an artery, a heart—name that tune sing me to sleep keep me
warm keep me sane keep my feet light put a skip in my step give
me a method to all of the madness.

Happiness, don’t tell me to keep waiting for days we both know you
have jumped the carpool lane into the off-ramp of yesterday.

And now you’re just a blip in my rearview mirror the asshole in my
peripheral vision has his brights on I can’t see you driving there I can’t
see you with both hands on the wheel I can’t hear your stereo I can’t smell
your cigarette smoke why don’t you ever come find me? Why don’t you
know how to linger?

Happiness, there may be no proper way to end this. All of this. Not this
meta-dedication and personalization of you. Not till you’re mine. In my arms,
your hair resting on my chest, Bon Iver in the background.

Then, maybe then…

On the Prospects of Letting Go

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Little Things. Start there. Form your blockade with the tiniest lego pieces you can find in your vicinity and run from there.
Begin with the least obstructive of them. A tap here. One less follower for us both.
You won’t hit all the windows all at once. You’ll spare yourself the work of finishing this blockade all at once. You’ll put it off. Just in case.

That’ll be about the dumbest fucking thing you can do.

You’ll promise not to cave in. Not to peek. And you’ll stick to it.

Some of the work will be done for you. She’ll disappear in to the shadow trenches and form her own blockade against you. You’ll wonder why for a moment.

Aren’t you supposed to be the one digging into the Helm’s Deep of your landscape for the inevitable blowback?

You’ll wonder how much her feelings resemble yours. If she can’t bear looking back either. You won’t speculate for too long though.

The wall will continue assembling itself gradually.

One time you’ll be waiting for the doctor to come back with and with no distractions around it’ll dawn on you to sever the chord to her friends.

Another time you’ll take a peek, just a casual glance. You’ll regret it instantly.

And for a moment it’ll appear that no thundering engine through a foggy night with Bono in the front seat and Kanye in the back will make things better.

You won’t be able to unsee it. No matter how fast you drive down that familiar, moss laden highway of yours.

A thick black curtain will be drawn across the rear windows. It will be bolted into the wall with liquid cement.

You’ll make sure voyeurism is forever out of range.

Raise an army. Build your wall.

Where They might never find you again.
Where Judgement is broadest conspiracy of all.
Where she exists forever outside the present for you.

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS ISSUE TWO

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Submissions for issue two of In-flight Literary Magazine are now open. The deadline to submit is December 1st.

If you would like your work to be considered for our second issue, please e-mail thepaperplanepilots@gmail[DOT]com.

For poetry, please submit 3-5 poems for consideration. To get a feel for our style, feel free to roam around our site or the first issue.

For fiction or creative non-fiction, our word count limit has no minimum (feel free to run with that) and the maximum is 2,500 words.

Simultaneous submissions are totally fine with us but please PLEASE please notify us as soon as humanly possible if it is published elsewhere.

Previously published work is okay, just let us know where so we can give proper credit where it’s due. Make sure to adhere to any grace periods provided by whoever has published it previously. If you’re unsure about grace periods, please contact your previous publisher.

Unfortunately, we cannot offer any form of payment at this time. We allow one submission per issue per person.

If there is anything else I forgot to mention or any other type of writing or artwork you’re curious about, please let us know and we will definitely consider other mediums.

Feel free to bring up any questions in the comments below or email us if you’re a shy writer (totally unheard of).

Submissions close December 1st 11:59 PST.

homeostasis

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i know the fevers well.
the burning entities on the surface of your skin the red hot
deserts that harbor abrasive sand and the sand only absorbs the heat
that’s passed around from the sun to the surface of the earth and we are just
unburdening the sun of its heavy hot emotion

i know the feelings well
the need to alleviate you of all of the harsh
rays the need to comfort you soothe you send you home
happy and whole and honest the liveliness of a simple temperature
keeping us all safe from the heat please close the window, i’m not paying

to air condition the world.

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