I Am One, I Am All

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A naked corpse lies
on the museum platform
Bronze skin
cracking like old clay
Lights hang high
illuminating scabs and rot

It’s my corpse

Thick red-wine blood,
eye pupils fade into ghost-grey
Green stems rise from open holes in his
chest, fingers, arms, thighs
reaching the ceiling lights
Sunflowers rising,
nurtured by motionless veins

The green grass gave me birth
My brown body births the world


Lime Juice

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I’d describe it as tickling the outskirts,
but as a child tickling always
incited an outburst.

So what am I supposed to do
when the curse of inept words
drops me from higher altitudes?

Attitude undefined 
in lieu of appropriate time-signatures
and perfect rhymes.

I’m lactating lies
from the pores in my porous eyes.

Baroque, upholstered stairs
covered in tequila
and lime.

Solace in crime,
comfort in pain;

I’m as misanthropic and estranged
as smoke rings without the apparatus; 

intrepid tagger without the paint.

I’ve woken from hopeless misery
to somewhere indefinable
and strange.

Willie Watt

Casual Toxicity


We’re blowing up in grey plumes that swallow our faces
and you’re used to that hum in your ears
and the way the corners warp, but my head
is floating up up up
hitting against the ceiling till I can’t count
my fingers and I lift my water but miss
my mouth and everyone laughs
condescending hands on my back while I
sputter and wish I’d eaten before taking a drag
off this bulbous apparatus with fog and water inside

and as you breathe in and sigh
that billowing effluence of smoke I can’t help but wonder
what I’m doing here in a grimy lounge with
men sitting on coal-singed couches laughing and
asking you if you’re gonna get lucky cuz man she’s
and I open my mouth to
protest, but all that comes out is cold sparks

so I revel in these toxic suspirations and toss my hair
and laugh giddy and drag my hand across
your thigh and you light up, cig in hand
kiss my cheek and slusperrr
I’ll be the best you’ve had baby, and I nod
slowly ‘cause it’s been awhile
and goddamn you look so cool
when all the smoke clouds your face.

M. Alden

i wish i could wear sunglasses @ night

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Don't tell me this is war. 
We're too tired for that.
We start to feel the
past ache in muscles 
and memory. I won't tell 
you I didn't see it coming.
I just assumed I wouldn't 
be around when it hit.

Dear California, 
I'm tired.
Can you please
(stop.) being so hot
A		nd	/ prone \		to chaos?
Too many people with
(quiet) ANGER.

Home is a closed" door 
and an "open mind

I just want to 





And tell you how 


I am. But I know that won't 
do either of us any 




to the end(.)

of this night. Just so I can 
put it in my 		{pocket}		 and 
put a, Name, to the feeling.

Or maybe it just won't end .
and that will be completely

at the 



(That's a first)

A dog at a gas station, ($) 
you don't have to understand.


      Veterans of the highway 

Clean it up 
after you get it 


G.  Ooooo 


You're the grass now.

You're in the gas 
station now.

It's picture perfect
Saturday night 

B. U M


I wrote this for me. 


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Cold but tolerable

The streets began to melt

The man finally came out

And tied on his belt

Their morning coffee runs

And daily routines

Stuck in a city

That trapped all their dreams

Stumbled into the streets

Transplants from the sun

Spinning on our paths

Trying to be someone

Carving ways for opportunity

In a place that was already solid

Long before we rose

And before our folks decided

They don’t need us here

This place will never crumble

They poured concrete

On untouched garden mumbles

When we arrived

We looked for flowers

But quickly realized

We should have been collecting rocks

Six Drinks Later

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As so often happens in places
of extreme duress, I’m arrested
with the singular desire
to find out just what comes next.
The text of future tense
is illegible hash, crashing
against the present tense’s
window with hurricane force.
Two short musical phrases ring
in my ear, first one, then the other,
then the first again.
Their motif is thirst, thirst itself
without the object it posits
as that which can sate it.
This late in the game,
I should be blaming
my permanent victim status
for the loss I’m about to add
to my scrapbook of losses,
the embossed lettering
on the cover cowering,
its pages flowering, but instead
the phrase “Fuck it” is powering
through my exposed teeth,
bleeding. I’ll be needing
that second chance once more.

-r. miller

Bridge Gang

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