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Issue 3

She Smiled at Me Today

 

she smiled at me today

 

that kind of,

                     "I'm only talking to you because I have to"

                                           smile

                    "so If I am going to I might as well pretend that I can stand your presence"

                              "( ---why do you talk to me--- )"

two years ago I'd take that and turn it into some type of mutual attraction

night of drinking, making small talk

magnetic loathing flipped into youthful sky diving

the best mistakes feel like adventures

we don't write numbers on napkins

no

us adults whisper on down to the bathroom

conquest in the form of crashing skin

soma measured down and refined like quarters or rupees

you meant *this much*

 

I want my money back

 

counting the tiles on the bathroom floor makes better conversation

you are at the brim with lithograms and parchment

an S.O.S. bottle too full of hot air to drown

just as lonely sad as me floating along

waiting until somebody opens you up and reads

I will not read you tonight

 

love the solitude

the ceiling stops the stars from hearing your song

 

sing it anyways

the heart beats black with tar and one-way road signs

 

drive it back

The next time I ask

you how your night went

I'll smile too

 

                                                                                           — Kevin Holmes

Judas

 

He feels cold, buoyant, a lime wedge in ice,

wishes he were tattoo crawling under

the bartender's skirt. He always looks

 

at legs first, knows he'll have time on the weekend

to do penance for living. He imagines

dying old. In his dreams, snowballs will war

 

against zeppelins. Fishnet will stain his nightmares.

He will contract lip piercings from kissing

strange women. He will remember running

 

with tired metaphors, wanting to puke

on the counter, watch hockey on TV,

dissolve on the way home, in a car, going

 

somewhere instead of waiting for something

to happen. He knows an empty glass may

be the last thing he touches so tenderly.

 

                            — Michael Constantine McConnell

Emily’s business

 

                                          Reconcile first verses with boxing

                                    Undressing    pressurized                    rays

                          Shifting                   Satan to                               Natas

                     In a                                                     wor(l)d                where

                         The dis(ease)d                                         roam believing

                               That their                                     love for poetry

                                      Differs                                 not from their

                                                        Love of memory

 

— Trevor Abes

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