tomorrow i want the turnip cakes
maybe a noodle dish
maybe spare ribs!
maybe duck.
GOD I LOVE THAT GROCERY STORE
it is fucking awesome
fresh lychee
SO MANY DUMPLINGS
alllllll the noodles
DuCk EgGs
QuAiL EgGs
fresh fish!
ADORABLE BOWLS
knive
s
knives!
my favorite sushi rice
and it just smells correct
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Parasitic Aches by Alec Bryan
Parasitic Aches
Each evening the sun grows tired of consuming itself
Cloud’s spiral staircases lead to nothing but thin air
No ransom from the ignominy of a mortal cross
Leave it for the worm to settle life’s last question
Falling acorns think not to atone their father
Guilt-ridden roosters rouse the waking and the dead
No contestant claims earth’s winning ticket
Decaying leaves and bat droppings have the final say
Night simplifies. Day exaggerates. Time multiplies. Winter
hesitates….on the brink of life and death, separating marrow from the
bone, flesh and blood coagulates…between the melting and freezing
point all gets blurred, runs into one: It was a whisper came to me at
night, the raven and robin visiting simultaneously, perching upon the
limestone sill—how to decipher codeless words? Crazy to say the moon
speaks to me.
Petered out, cocooned in a hammock, staring into blank blue sky
It is then I become America. America I am thee:
Shining headlight on a loaded coal truck slithering through dark
canyons. Oxidation on a worn down 55’ roaring across ringent
interstates. Then, She drops me, lets me descend like the aspen leaf
into the mouth of the mighty Colorado. Following the meandering river,
impatient at each checkpoint, eddying my time away until Hoover
thrusts me forward, drying up, desiccated before ever reaching the sea
What I wouldn’t give to be a curled branch on Klimt’s forever tree
Or a swirl of light in van Gogh’s starry night…I would then unfurl,
unravel myself in majestic fright until I reached the frayed end of
what was me.
Each evening the sun grows tired of consuming itself
Cloud’s spiral staircases lead to nothing but thin air
No ransom from the ignominy of a mortal cross
Leave it for the worm to settle life’s last question
Falling acorns think not to atone their father
Guilt-ridden roosters rouse the waking and the dead
No contestant claims earth’s winning ticket
Decaying leaves and bat droppings have the final say
Night simplifies. Day exaggerates. Time multiplies. Winter
hesitates….on the brink of life and death, separating marrow from the
bone, flesh and blood coagulates…between the melting and freezing
point all gets blurred, runs into one: It was a whisper came to me at
night, the raven and robin visiting simultaneously, perching upon the
limestone sill—how to decipher codeless words? Crazy to say the moon
speaks to me.
Petered out, cocooned in a hammock, staring into blank blue sky
It is then I become America. America I am thee:
Shining headlight on a loaded coal truck slithering through dark
canyons. Oxidation on a worn down 55’ roaring across ringent
interstates. Then, She drops me, lets me descend like the aspen leaf
into the mouth of the mighty Colorado. Following the meandering river,
impatient at each checkpoint, eddying my time away until Hoover
thrusts me forward, drying up, desiccated before ever reaching the sea
What I wouldn’t give to be a curled branch on Klimt’s forever tree
Or a swirl of light in van Gogh’s starry night…I would then unfurl,
unravel myself in majestic fright until I reached the frayed end of
what was me.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, November 28, 2011
Cats At Their Bowls Lapping by Donal Mahoney
This time there’s a postscript:
“If ever I cook dinner for you,
it will be Coquilles St. Jacques
and Jefferson Davis Pie.”
Imagine Angela,
after all these years,
rising and gliding
to check on my pie,
wouldn’t that be something?
Angela, come to Chicago,
and bring all of your cats.
I’ll watch those cats
in your lap napping,
you in my lap napping,
the cats at their bowls lapping,
and I in my chair laughing.
Angela, bring all of your cats
and come to Chicago
to make Coquilles St. Jacques
and Jefferson Davis Pie.
“If ever I cook dinner for you,
it will be Coquilles St. Jacques
and Jefferson Davis Pie.”
Imagine Angela,
after all these years,
rising and gliding
to check on my pie,
wouldn’t that be something?
Angela, come to Chicago,
and bring all of your cats.
I’ll watch those cats
in your lap napping,
you in my lap napping,
the cats at their bowls lapping,
and I in my chair laughing.
Angela, bring all of your cats
and come to Chicago
to make Coquilles St. Jacques
and Jefferson Davis Pie.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
(Autobiographical poem) Aaron Beasley gropes himself
IF LIKE THEN
Is it okay if
I still think of you
while masturbating
promise I'll keep it clean
To be ironic
all you have to do is
pretend that you're not
sorry for everything
I occupied wall
street & all I got
was this lousy
semicolon
Is it okay if
I still think of you
while masturbating
promise I'll keep it clean
To be ironic
all you have to do is
pretend that you're not
sorry for everything
I occupied wall
street & all I got
was this lousy
semicolon
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Second Language by Simon Jacobs
Second Language”
The sound of bodies colliding repeatedly. I was on top.
“Could you lay off for a second, please?”
“Yeah.” I eased out and he rolled over. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re all up in my crevices.”
“I’m what?”
He motioned at his armpits. “You’re digging your hands under my arms. It’s uncomfortable.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, just.”
“Please don’t say the word ‘crevices.’ It sounds obscene.”
“What would you prefer I say, ‘orifices?’”
I snorted. “Based on our position now, I would assume that you wanted me all up in your orifices. Orifices, you know, like”—the word ‘holes’ disgusted me, especially applied to sex—“pits.”
“Exactly. Like arm-pits.”
“I mean holes. Crevices are more like cracks or valleys.”
“Like this?” He brought his arm down to his side. “Like this, see? Something you can slide down into.”
“Okay, fine,” I said, feeling my ardor about to dim. “Can we get back to this please?”
He gave an exasperated sigh and rolled back over. I held him with one hand gripping beneath his armpit, the other planted on the floor, and picked up where I’d left off.
“Watch it. The crevices.”
I let him go and we continued hands-free, hardly touching.
The sound of bodies colliding repeatedly. I was on top.
“Could you lay off for a second, please?”
“Yeah.” I eased out and he rolled over. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re all up in my crevices.”
“I’m what?”
He motioned at his armpits. “You’re digging your hands under my arms. It’s uncomfortable.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, just.”
“Please don’t say the word ‘crevices.’ It sounds obscene.”
“What would you prefer I say, ‘orifices?’”
I snorted. “Based on our position now, I would assume that you wanted me all up in your orifices. Orifices, you know, like”—the word ‘holes’ disgusted me, especially applied to sex—“pits.”
“Exactly. Like arm-pits.”
“I mean holes. Crevices are more like cracks or valleys.”
“Like this?” He brought his arm down to his side. “Like this, see? Something you can slide down into.”
“Okay, fine,” I said, feeling my ardor about to dim. “Can we get back to this please?”
He gave an exasperated sigh and rolled back over. I held him with one hand gripping beneath his armpit, the other planted on the floor, and picked up where I’d left off.
“Watch it. The crevices.”
I let him go and we continued hands-free, hardly touching.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Poem by Barry Graham
YOU'RE SO FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD, YOU PROBABLY THINK THIS POEM IS ABOUT YOU. AND MAYBE YOU'RE RIGHT, BITCH, MAYBE IT IS, BUT YOU'LL NEVER KNOW UNLESS YOU ASK, AND I'LL NEVER TELL UNTIL YOU REMEMBER HOW TO TELL THE TRUTH
but don't worry.
none of this is about you.
but don't worry.
none of this is about you.
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