Finding Golf Clubs on a Rainy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
They're the clubs of our local pro;
This morning as he played a round
He felt he'd never sunk so low.

One fairway shot was never found.
He hit two long drives out of bounds.
He double-bogeyed eight and ten.
His cursing made the hills resound.

The laughter of the other men
Made him forget he'd ever been
Happy to play this miserable game.
He fretted, fumed, turned red and then

All his excuses sounding lame,
And having no one else to blame,
He flung his clubs in anger and shame,
He flung his clubs in anger and shame.

by Patrick Cook

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Patrick Cook lives with his wife, Valorie. They are both retired postal workers who live in Grand Rapids, Michigan, which is listed as the 33rd cloudiest city in the United States. This figure is highly suspicious. They believe there is a conspiracy among statisticians to underrate their city, fueled by bribery and corruption on a national scale. They demand an investigation.


Lines on a Used Book

The man who sold this book to me
said, "The book, it comes as is."
Standing before the college library
it became my possession, leaving his.

Whoever owned this book before me
broke its spine and wore it worse
as they read this poem repeatedly,
leaving pencil lines beneath the verse.

But whoever owned it prior to me
marked every foolish passage and
made notes I don't want friends to see
and think them written in my hand;

or that they note importance, in this poem, to me,
because the chosen parts are worn and trite,
including parts I don't want friends to see
that I've re-underlined, because they're right.

by Gordon White

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Gordon White lives in New York and is a connoisseur of good beer, terrible haircuts, and tasteful plaids. Although his poetry has appeared around the Web, the last time he read an actual printed journal was at his mother's house over the holidays. She also doesn't know how to use her iPhone and she still gets her internet from AOL. She hasn't seen The Wire, either. Get a clue, Mom! Anyway, to visit him in a world without limits (well, character limits), check out www.grizzlyspectacles.com.


Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Columbus

Five days have past; five sunrises, with them
Five long nights! And again, in stride, I hear
The cute rustling of plastic garbage bags,
The turning of aluminum cans, moved
Through the dirty waters of the river,
Brought still by the clash of a rubber tire.
Once again do I behold the mountains
Of a thousand cigarettes, placed gently
Against the banks, where any bird may find
His dinner in the ash, or tobacco,
He finds lined in the leftover filters.
   These beauteous forms have not been to me—
Forgotten are the pale images of
Homeless men, shouting with their signs for food,
But mostly, they are hungry for money,
Which they might spend to redecorate parks
With broken bottles and their paper bags—
For it has been too long since I have seen
The murky waters of that sweet river.
   How oft! How oft, in dreams have I returned
To you, O humble Olentangy, you
Have killed a hundred depressions. Tranquil
Has my heart become when I turn to thee.
   And now I see the picture of the mind,
Which, long gone, I thought to be extinguished.
Now here I stroll, my soul filled with the thoughts
Of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers,
Of children running barefoot in their yards,
And you, my darling city, allow me
To forget these horrid things, and remind
Me of a better world: where pavement and
Concrete are more plentiful than the air
I breathe, the ants on the ground, or the dreams
A million terminally ill children
Pray to God before drifting to death's sleep.
   Still I am a lover of the meadows
And the woods, but instead of trees and ferns
I walk in glee through skyscrapers and plants
Made of molding newspapers and dead mice.
I run among the cars—a herd of deer—
Who breathe the fragrant black smoke while they sprint;
A blackness that covers all the city,
Which hides me from the antagonistic
Sun, that murderous ball of Apollo's
Hate, light that darkens ev'ry person's skin.
Give me clouds and sweet drops of acid rain!
Hide the stars and moon for eternity;
I only want to see the synthetic
Glow of street lamps and reds of traffic lights.
   If I should be where no more could I hear
The gentle whisper of your gurgling oil,
Nor could I see the fallen autumn leaves
Covered in candy wrappers just as brown,
Wilt thou forget me, too, Olentangy?
Forget the numerous days spent list'ning
To the homeless puking on the creek side,
Or seeing the graffiti as I walk
Under the bridges passing over thee?
May I never see the day that I could
Let the memories flee my aging mind!
This place, so dear to my heart and my soul,
Shall be with me ever more, for myself,
But most importantly, 'tis for thy sake!

by Matthew Thompson

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Matthew Thompson recently graduated from Otterbein University, where he got a degree in English. Suggestions on how to productively use such a degree should be sent to mdthompson0103@gmail.com.


A Few Things I Ate

There are a few things I'm sorry I ate: a piece of fried chicken
in an all night diner that bled when I cut into it,
a soup in an elegant French restaurant where I encountered
a mysterious ring of plastic. Also: a bowl of spaghetti served
with so many long strands of hair I wondered who,
in the kitchen, had gone bald. I'm sorry I ate the fast food
cookies that tasted like paper the same way I am sorry
I let certain men kiss me or hold my hand. I'm especially sorry
I ate a certain hot dog on a train that had been twirling for days
on a lukewarm display. Forgive me for all that cafeteria food
in college: packaged, bland, frozen so long it could not
remember flavor. And, hungry in my dorm, I ate bags
of stale lies from vending machines, once even a pair
of expired Twinkies filled with a terrible chemical cream
I am still digesting. After my daughter was born I bought
so much organic baby food my husband found the jars
everywhere: little glass wishes. One winter I ate exotic fruits
from upscale stores so expensive I might have flown instead
to a distant tropical island. Then, careless, I ate
from containers only my microwave understood. I know
what food is supposed to be but often isn't; I know
who I might have been if I ate whatever I should have eaten.
Remember the time we ate Ethiopian food and spent
a week dreaming so vividly our real life grew pale?
Or the day we ate so much spice in our Thai food
that our mouths were softer? I'm not sorry I ate
all those ice cream sandwiches from my grandmother's
freezer and drank those Pepsis with her on the way
to Kmart to buy more pink, plastic toys. She liked
the way sugar made me lively and, anyway,
she was suggesting the possibility of pleasure.
She made a vegetable soup that simmered all day
on the stove: growing deeper, more convincing,
and a carrot cake with cream cheese icing that floated
on my tongue like love. Now I am middle aged I am fat
and eating salads or, before bed, talking myself
into rice cakes that taste like despair. My father
is diabetic and must have everything whole wheat
and lean and my sister can't have any salt. I'm sorry
I ate all that cereal when we first got married,
by myself in the kitchen, the milk pale and worried.
Remember how I covered my fruit with cheese
and mayonnaise? I'm not sorry, whatever
you might say. Then there were the lunches
we ate on the beach, watching the seals
sun themselves: thick chicken sandwiches wrapped
in a foil so silver they must have been valuable.

by Faith Shearin

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Faith Shearin is the author of three books of poetry: The Owl Question (May Swenson Award), The Empty House (Word Press), and Moving the Piano (SFA University Press). Recent work has appeared in Poetry East and The Southern Review and has been read aloud by Garrison Keillor on The Writer's Almanac. She is the recipient of awards from The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, The Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her work also appears in The Autumn House Anthology of Contemporary Poets and Good Poems, American Places. She lives with her husband, her daughter, and a small, opinionated dachshund, in a cabin on top of a mountain in West Virginia.


Flour and Rice (A Celiac's Hell)

Some say the meal will start with flour,
Some say with rice.
From what I've tasted midst devour
I hold with those whose favor flour,
For if to me they fed it twice,
I think I know enough of grain
To say that for digestion rice
Is also pain
And won't suffice.

by Daniel Schall

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Daniel Schall is a poet and teacher from Philadelphia, the City of Loverly Broth. He enjoys reading poems from drunk people and researching Bigfoot footage online. He is obsessed with pizza flavored Goldfish crackers, semiotics, breaking the rule of three, and promoting Obsession Literary Magazine (www.obsessionlitmag.com). He has a short attention span and...hang on, I have to take this.


Sonnet to the Dollar Store

Where vagabond dollars find their place,
at last, unbroken, their value decreed,
safe from voodoo economics of greed,
the gold standard greenbacks earns their grace.
These dollars empower modest buyers
of stock staples: tools, canned food, white soap,
plastic spoons, pins and pens, glue, twine and rope,
and grab bags, like fruit on trees, inspires.
This humble boutique, its shelves are proud,
its mission honest, in service to plain folks,
no scam, no hoax, no deceit to provoke
the ire of trusting customers unbowed.
One item, one dollar, an oath abides
Here, a dollar is what a dollar buys.

by Gregg Sapp

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The biggest joke in Gregg Sapp's literary career is that he wrote 60 academic articles and four learnéd monographs, not a word of which (he is convinced) was ever read by anybody. As a 50th birthday present to himself, he wrote a novel: Dollarapalooza, published in 2011 by Switchgrass Books and soon to be found in bins at better dollar stores. Since then, he's published in Zodiac Review, Midwestern Gothic, and Marathon Review. Whether anybody reads this stuff remains an open question.


An Elegy on the Untimely Death of Humpty Dumpty

I weep for poor Ovoidicus—he is dead!
Oh! Weep for poor Ovoidicus, though our tears
Assemble not the body or the head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse circular compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: "With me
Died poor Ovoidicus! Till the future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
A lesson and a lamp for all eternity."

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he fell,
From his high perch atop the selfsame wall
Where he was wont to sit and hear the bell
Call Lords and Ladies, horsemen, steeds, and all?
With veiléd eyes wert thou asleep to call
Of destiny to guard that precious egg;
Wert thou oblivious to that hugey ball
That toppled without favor of a leg
Near soft enough—though strong!—to cushion him, I beg?

Lament anew, Cholestra! He has died,
From whole to separated in one drop;
A dozen, dozen pieces of his pride
Scattered about in bits from one great pop
That, shell-shocked, caused his happy heart to stop,
And globoid glory disappear from view,
An erstwhile treasure now fit for a mop,
Or breakfast chef battalion, all in crew,
To add a smorgasbord soufflé to their menu.

Alas! That all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been;
One deadly fall, and all that’s left to see
Are merest bits of beauty that were him;
A glowing light forever will be dim.
He is made one with Nature. There is heard
His voice in all her music, and the sin
Of mass destruction and the broken word
Are quiet now: Ovoidicus is interred.

by Andrew Sacks

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Andrew Sacks lives in the greater L.A. area, in Fontana. He wears many hats (occasionally at the same time): English professor at two local community colleges and a private university; Rated chess Master; Freelance writer with published works both on the game of chess and various other subjects, primarily at www.chessdryad.com and www.angiesdiary.com; Humorist who is now concentrating on parodies of well-known poems, poets, and poetic styles.


Not Terribly Far from Reno

i wonder what it was like for moses
in his motel room after 40 years
of wandering through the desert
did he get food delivered figs
lox bagels a little palm wine
a formosa for moses ice
maker under the moonlit
heavens with a shower
and shave just like clint
eastwood after having
to watch his back
with eyes over
his head taking
on the whole posse
or just totally dehydrated
and going for the faucet in
the corner and passing out

hold my calls....

by Joseph Reich

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Joseph Reich is still trying to prove he exists and still hasn't and finds as each day dwindles by, rougher and rougher. His books range from poetry to philosophy to cultural studies and as such: A Different Sort Of Distance (Skive Magazine), If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge (Flutter), Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life & Times Of The Man Sawed In Half (Brick Road Poetry), Drugstore Sushi (Thunderclap), The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians (Fomite), The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end of the world (Fomite), All My Born Days: the spirit of home movies (Writing Knights), The Hole That Runs Through Utopia (Popcorn).


Up, Slacker, Up!

Up, slacker, up! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's you no longer raise
Your ready head and stand at gaze.

Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach—
But now indifferent and you don't know why
So like a possum you pretend to die!

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Rejects the unleavened and seeks the yeast:
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More staunchness from her favored squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Is that you will not be Cupid's whipping post,
When were you made a man who has no part
To perform in Aphrodite's art.

Will many-gifted Beauty come
Begging of you duties just a crumb,
Or Love not ask to drain the cup?
Arise, arise! Up, slacker, up!

by Mark Perry

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Mark Perry and his twin brother spent their formative years at the Georgia State Prison in Reidsville, Georgia, where their father worked and where their family lived inside the guard line. They planned their escape well. Mark's encounters with prisoners prepared him for a career as a criminal lawyer. His brother's study of criminal behavior prepared him for a career as a political science professor who specializes in that subcategory of criminals known as politicians. One thing that Mark finds comforting about growing up at the state prison is that if he gets into serious trouble, he can go home again.


The math major's sex life is strenuous
Though his touch with reality's tenuous.
All he asks is that sex
As a function of x
Be unbounded and piecewise continuous.

by Rick Norwood

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Rick Norwood flunked out of M.I.T. and currently edits a comic book.


The Wit

The wit knows he is not a winner.
   Not, at least, politically.
Nor the so-persuasive sinner
   he might like to be.

But he lobs a silky spark
   to brighten where we couldn't see
only to delight the dark

by James B. Nicola

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James B. Nicola has had over 300 poems published in sundry periodicals (including this one, where he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize). A Yale grad and stage director by profession, his book Playing the Audience won a Choice Award. As a poet, he also won the Dana Literary Award and a People's Choice award (from Storyteller), was nominated for a Rhysling Award, and was featured poet at New Formalist. His children's musical Chimes: A Christmas Vaudeville premiered in Fairbanks, Alaska—with Santa Claus in attendance opening night.


The Puppy

Puppy! Puppy! Whining quite
Through the hours of the night,
What exhausted mind or eye
Can name thy doubtful pedigree?

In what distant land or isle
Grew the file of thine smile?
Where and when did it transpire,
These the questions I inquire?

And whose action, & whose parts
Produced the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What bred hands? & what bred feet?

What the sire? What the dame,
She whose oven is to blame?
Would a vet bill in my grasp
Offer answers to be clasped?

When thou, pup, wast born with peers
And nursed the bitch through whimpered tears,
Did it take thee long to flee
And then arrive upon my knee?

Puppy! Puppy! Whining quite
Through the hours of the night,
My exhausted mind and eye
Can't name thy doubtful pedigree.

by R.C. Neighbors

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As a young cowboy, R.C. Neighbors fell in love with a farm girl in Oklahoma. He won her hand and her heart by bidding on her basket at auction, and they left for their honeymoon in a surrey with the fringe on top, somehow ending up in the strange land of Texas. It's hot there, like pits of hell hot. The people name things after George Bush. And the state doesn't even have a Broadway musical named after it. Soon, R.C. hopes to gain his Ph.D. and leave to parts unknown. Maybe somewhere with winter.


Skinny Dipping

A crafty old farmer, near the edge of his land,
Had a favorite spot for the mischief he planned,
With a view of a lake and its sandy white beach
Surrounded by orchards of apple and peach.

Three lovely young ladies, impelled by the heat,
Had stopped by the water to dangle their feet.
With no one around to ogle and gape,
They peeled off their dresses like skin from a grape.

They failed to take notice, that hidden by shade,
Was the farmer who watched while they frolicked and played.
"What a great day," he chortled with glee,
"I'll try to get closer and see what I see."

Seeking to peek at firm breasts and plump tails,
He picked up a pair of rusty old pails.
The ladies, by now, well aware of the peeper
Dove under to hide where the water was deeper,

When they rose to the surface in goose pimpled skin,
They spotted the  farmer who said with a grin,
"Don't be alarmed! It's no leering sinner;
I'm only bringing the gators their dinner!"

by Tom Murray

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Tom Murray is a retired computer geek living in Princeton, NJ (in relative tranquility) with his wife and two man-eating miniature dachshunds. He finds that life in a college town is highly conducive to writing poetry while pursuing his advanced studies in Applied Curmudgeonry. Look for his soon-to-be-published book Passive Aggression for Fun and Profit.


The Lunatic

we are all subjects
in the lab of love
it is as if there is some
crazy scientist at work here
combining all of the wrong
chemicals and watching
as the contents in the beakers
change colors, bubble, and fizz
and look! there's one now
watch it as it boils over
and explodes, and listen
as the room thunders
with laughter

by Leland March

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Leland March is a college sophomore and—in his spare time—a poet, guitarist, banjo picker, and piano player. He grew up in a small town where the highlight of the school year was Chicken Nugget Day. The students would convince their teachers to leave class early to get a hold of those crisp little beauties. Believe it or not, he has also starred in a short, and inconsistent film (his acting is not on par with his writing or music). He also plays the musical saw. It never fails to amuse.


A Cream-Puff Deferred

What happens to a cream-puff deferred?

  Does it go to mold
  Or gestate like a cheese
  And turn to curd?
  Do its insides liquefy—
  And then ooze?
  Or does it have to learn
  to sing the blues?

  Maybe its taste evolves
  Like hundred-year-old eggs.

Or does it sprout legs?

by Richard Krepski

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Richard Krepski resides in the twilight zone between scientific rationalism and poetic lunacy. He is retired from a career as research scientist and educator. Information on his book Alchemical Gold (a conglomeration of poetry, cosmological speculation, and religious philosophy) can be found at substance-to-spirit.com. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Tiferet, Jesus Radicals, and Bolts of Silk. He won the Tiferet writing award in 2009 for his essay "Center of the Universe."


Upon Julia's Nose

When in the spring my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her nose.

The poor girl's got such allergies,
Her eyes all red and watery.
O how her sneezing shaketh me.

by Steve Klepetar

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Steve Klepetar claims to be the best known Shanghai-born Jewish-American poet in all of Central Minnesota who has written a dissertation on Sir Walter Scott (no, he didn't play Scottie in Star Wars—look him up). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, which his father-in-law would have told him would get him on the subway as long as he had a token.


The Lamb

Little Lamb, who made you?
Do you know who made you?
Broiled you to a golden turn,
Watched you so you didn't burn?
Broiled your center rosy pink,
Chose a good Syrah to drink?
Raised a glass to mourn your loss,
Then served you with a nice mint sauce?
Little Lamb, who made you?
Do you know who made you?

Little lamb, I'll tell you.
She's the partner of my life,
She's my lovely, clever wife.
Oh, her cookery's a dream!
Leg of lamb and spuds with cream
Or a fine basmati rice
Rich with cumin and allspice.
Dinner's ready in a trice
And you won't have to call me twice.
Leg of lamb is very nice,
Yes, leg of lamb is very nice.

by Steve Klepetar

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Steve Klepetar claims to be the best known Shanghai-born Jewish-American poet in all of Central Minnesota who has written a dissertation on Sir Walter Scott (no, he didn't play Scottie in Star Wars—look him up). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, which his father-in-law would have told him would get him on the subway as long as he had a token.


Theodor Adorno Steps Out

He wrote for his Habilitation
on Kierkegaard's interiorization.
  That post-doctoral thesis
  and its exegesis
fell smack on the death of his nation.

But Theodor fought the good fight.
He stirred up the wrath of the right.
  When troubles first started,
  they called him Entartet,
and he used his head and took flight.

Adorno grew clearer, not rowdier
as Europe's horizons grew cloudier.
  When irrationality
  swelled nationality
his summa to Oxford went laudier.

New music?  Adorno adored it.
Pop culture?  My dear, he abhorred it.
  One hundred eleven
  ascended to Heaven
when Faustus revered and restored it.

As Theo Adorno grew older,
his writing grew brasher, yet colder.
  He cried, "Sisyphus
  never had it like this
for no one cast doubt on his boulder."

Adorno had plans for Berg's Lulu,
that opera free of all frou-frou:
  of lust without passion
  in serial fashion,
he'd conjure the voodoo of woo-woo.

In the Heaven that doesn't exist,
Adorno is there—with a twist:
  his infallibility
  threatens tranquility.
But, God, thank God, doesn't insist.

by Karen Greenbaum-Maya

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Karen Greenbaum-Maya is a closet German Lit major and a retired clinical psychologist, and not a moment too soon. She likes ducks, also duck, a conflict leading to her tragic view of life. She has a history with sheep. She can recite the value of pi to twenty places, but who cares? She may or may not outweigh all the Stones rolled together. She believes that if you want to hit someone with a fish, you should just hit them with a fish. She takes life very very very seriously. cloudslikemountains.blogspot.com


The Deadly Diet of Danny D. Wyatt

Danny D. Wyatt could not keep to a diet.
His stomach just wouldn't be quiet.

Feed me! Feed me! that stomach did cry.
Poor Danny D., he was forced to comply.

Apples pies and cinnamon toast,
Eggs and bacon it loved the most.

Cakes and soda it loved them, too.
Gum drops and licorice it loved to chew.

On it went, day after day.
The stomach consumed all in its way.

Soon Danny's stomach reached the floor.
The stomach insisted on eating more.

Danny D's stomach filled the whole room.
It looked around for more to consume.

There was Danny alone for an hour.
Guess what his stomach chose to devour?

by Paul Goldberg

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Paul Goldberg Paul Goldberg lives in Baltimore and belongs to a wife, 3 children, and 2 dogs. He writes children's poetry inbetween making a living. Paul is a graduate of the University of Florida and holds a masters degree from Hebrew University in Jerusalem. paul@basicpromotionsinc.com



Don't cry over milk spilled
in your half-filled cup of tea.
A bird by any other name
is worth two in the tree.

Feed a silk purse to an old dog,
but you'll never make him drink,
'cause the grass always greener
in the other kitchen sink.

You shouldn't count your chickens
in a house made out of glass.
Don't stop to smell a rat
or look a gift horse in the ass.

Each time it rains, it might pour
cats and dogs on your parade;
so dance like a fish out of water,
or you'll be a wet blanket's old maid.

Fight frying pans with fire;
chase the goose who ate your hat.
Never whistle in the belfry;
knock your socks right off the bat.

You won't find camels threading
needles in a stack of hay.
Remember, even broken clocks
are cleaned two times a day.

by Laura Garrison

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Laura Garrison lives in a small apartment with her husband and an evil gnome. She has never actually seen the gnome, but she knows it's there because something keeps hiding her shoes in weird places and stealing all the good jellybeans out of the candy dish. She studies American literature but secretly dreams of becoming a wrecking-ball operator. She likes turtles, carnivals, and blueberry pancakes.


Knitting as Marital Therapy

Needles. Click click click.
Knitting occupies both hands.
I can't strangle you.

by Kathy Ferrell

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Kathy Ferrell writes and makes art from the confines of the free range asylum known as West Virginia. Dissenting against the current Appalachian pastime of seeing how much mud one can get on one's teeth in a 24 hour period, she instead advocates a return to the more staid cultural practices of her ancestors; sin eating, widow pickin', snake handling, and xenophobia. She maintains a blog that is not consistently stupid, and in this economy, that's saying somethin' cuposwank.wordpress.com



Blind Pedestrians"

it says
but not in Braille
and I watch them
without fail
but isn't this unfair
to those who see?
Do the blind, I wonder,
Listen protectively for me?

by Timons Esaias

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Timons Esaias is a satirist, poet and writer of short fiction, living in Pittsburgh, and teaching at Seton Hill University. His work has appeared in fifteen languages. His News Nots satire column appeared in seven newspapers, and convinced many readers that the Vatican was relocating to St. Louis and that the Pittsburgh Sewer & Water Authority had decided to add Prozac to the water supply (along with sodium pentothal at tax time). He tends to go on and on about stuff.


The Rhyme of the Patient Dog Owner

Pee pee, pee pee everywhere
They lift their legs in sync.
Pee pee, pee pee everywhere
And how the place does stink.

So very deep the spot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yes, naughty things do lift their legs
Upon all that they see.

Get out, get out, I scold and rout
The spritzing day and night;
They water, like a pitcher's spout,
As though it were all right.

And they in dreams assured were
Of their bright streams that plagued us so;
Our love so deep we had pardoned them
For all acts inapropos.

by Diane de Anda

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Diane de Anda is a third generation Latina and retired UCLA professor with expertise in teen pregnancy, STD, and violence prevention. No longer grinding out academic papers, she writes short stories, satires, parodies, children's books, and poetry. She has short stories in Rosebud and Pacific Review, poetry in Light, 7 published children's books, and hopes to make time to learn how to play her collection of 24 drums.


Professor Lothario

Protected by the ivied walls
He leered at coeds in the halls
And checked out all the students' breasts
While he was proctoring their tests.
Professor with a Ph.D.,
He lured young women easily,
Though if his status were unknown,
No one would choose by looks alone
His flabby frame and creviced face,
His balding head, his fake embrace.
He tricked young women dull and bright,
But gave no more than just one night,
Then learned how hard an icon falls
When jilted girls cut off his balls.

by Diane de Anda

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Diane de Anda is a third generation Latina and retired UCLA professor with expertise in teen pregnancy, STD, and violence prevention. No longer grinding out academic papers, she writes short stories, satires, parodies, children's books, and poetry. She has short stories in Rosebud and Pacific Review, poetry in Light, 7 published children's books, and hopes to make time to learn how to play her collection of 24 drums.


The Girl from Sunken R'lyeh

Andante orribile

Tall and green and pentapodal,
the girl from Sunken R'lyeh goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes goes—

(in 5/4)
  When she walks, it's like
  Take Five performed by
  Brubeck upon the

Oh, but I watch her so sadly
As she eats the entrails of the others,
Yes, I would give my heart gladly.
And today when she crawls from the sea
She lurches directly to me.

Tall and green and pentapodal,
the girl from Sunken R'lyeh goes walking
I smile at her eyeless face - but she doesn't see.
(She just doesn't see, she never sees me.)

by Robert Dawson

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Robert Dawson is the transparent pseudonym of the mathematician Robert Dawson. His work has appeared in periodicals such as The Resurrectionist, Open Heart Forgery, and the Mathematical Proceedings of the Cambridge Philosophical Society (where they didn't get the limerick about the young girl from Alaska at all). His coolest paper is probably the one in the Journal of Statistical Education that borrows one of Randall Munroe's XKCD cartoons to explain about exploratory data analysis.


My Father's Final Letter

If you can keep your head when all about you
 Are tapping out and damning rotten breaks;
If you can hold your nerve when others doubt you
 And muster guts to double up the stakes;

If you can collar buddies with your sinew
 To back you up when you run out of hay,
Or skin some tourist rabbits to continue
 Roulette or Craps until the break of day;

If you can curse—but also be well-spoken
 To any badge who dumps you out for cheating,
And dusting off and finding nothing's broken,
 Return disguised and give a cordial greeting;

If you can make a heap of all your winnings
 And risk it on a single spin or toss,
And losing, play on credit underpinning,
 And never tell the wife about your loss—

If debt upsets you only for a minute,
 And if you trust in luck's upcoming run,
Then you will live a life that knows no limit!

 P.S. Spare your Dad some cash, my Son?

by Barbara Lydecker Crane

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A former quilt artist, Barbara Lydecker Crane of Somerville, MA created fabric landscapes now in private, public, and museum collections. In 2011 she won the Helen Schaible Sonnet Contest, and in 2012 she published a chapbook of humorous poetry (including several parodies) entitled Zero Gravitas (White Violet Press). As a quiltmaker, her income was pretty paltry. As a poet it's positively puny. Fortunately her husband is gainfully employed.


A Continuation on Nash

Studying the Indian Ganges life,
one day he missed his second wife.
He was informed by a wandering Tamil
that she had been crushed by a rolling camel.
The professor's face grew dimpled and merry.
"You mean," he chuckled, "a dromedary."

by Patrick Cook

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Patrick Cook lives with his wife, Valorie. They are both retired postal workers who live in Grand Rapids, Michigan, which is listed as the 33rd cloudiest city in the United States. This figure is highly suspicious. They believe there is a conspiracy among statisticians to underrate their city, fueled by bribery and corruption on a national scale. They demand an investigation.