by Aaron Brazda
| Sinuet No. 1 by Keenan Ketzner Perhaps by Travis Roberts We lie in perhaps, hum- hushed in dank corners of fir lights and twinkled haze, toenails crowned with dandelion bands. Brows beaten and drunk-- a given gesture gives way. Knees on shins and knuckles tossed, a fingered slip in twisted touch. A still life slain but breathing, broken smarts, an absent thing. Dishes spilling molded jam, a carbon stench below the shift. And when it wants it disappears, a column crumbled to its toes. An empire wracked with empty feet, its chairs cracked with vacant falls. A dizzy dive in liquid land, a stumbled leak back into straight -- linear loops to drop a grasp, a lone perchance. |
Wounds from Washing, part 1 by The Printing Spool Too Far by Evan Puchalla
Every now and again there comes a period of time during which sense and rationality no longer prevail, taken over are they by an essence of instinctual desire or by a rising tension of hopeless confusion. It is a time when your bed's sheets grow holes, when you have to cut the bad black circles from tomatoes, when white yogurt chunks slop from your milk glasses into the sink, when your spine won't stay straight and your knees need greasing to bend, when the shower floods with itchy grey water that climbs toward your shins, and when you've been up so long and need coffee or sleep so bad false shadows start to dance on the table and in the ridges of the bones and veins in your arms. I find myself in a time such as this almost weekly, when the things around me become abstract and disconnected, when the people around me become faceless and absurd, when my own body seems to be falling apart piece by piece, and when time itself bounces around the room like a polybutadiene rubber ball.
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by Evan Puchalla