Kevin Ridgeway

ThLarsen - post box

Post Box by Thomas Larsen

What Heathens Do on Sundays

men polish their shoes
and straighten their ties
the coffee percolating and
mingling with the aroma
of fresh pastries at
churches across the land
women and girls slink
into their best floral dresses
the pastors and preachers
earmark their bibles for
their weekly sermons
and I’m sitting here
in this converted garage
apartment in my underwear
listening to Frank Zappa
sing about having sex
with household appliances
while my girlfriend
reads the arts & culture
section of the LA times
this is just another
unholy day for us,
drinking wine
from Dixie cups
cussing about the
latest episode
of Charlie Rose
while our neutered
cat licks his
phantom balls clean
and prays for
a new pair

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Craig Scott

Bitchin Twenty Twelve

Bitchin’ Twenty Twelve by Cheryl Townsend


for John Dorsey

if sodomy
is a city in New Jersey
I’m never leaving
this state


for Misti

no one
is bulimic in heaven.
you can have your Jesus
on a cracker
& wash him down
with sugary iced tea.

no one
will hate you for
diarrhea of the mouth.
everyone will kiss you
on your sloppy mouth.
all year long.

it’s heaven,
so eat,
drink & sing,

LaQuinta Blackketter


Remains of Primitive Communication by Kristin Fouquet


I’m ready,
Washed with the residue of your yesterdays
I know better than to share the song with you.
So, window clenched tight, until I am free.
I know I’ll never emerge a woman,
But I’ll be back, tasting the seasons as a critic.
Should I read the reflections of pages knowing,
My lips dance to the fondled verses of my vocals.
I will always be a liar.

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Ross Vassilev

The Laws Vary From State to State

The Laws Vary From State to State by Jim Wittenberg

what an asshole

my grandfather was a drunk
he retired from the army as a lt. colonel
so I hate soldiers in general
but Amercian soldiers most of all
cuz there’s only one Empire
I leave nasty comments for them all over
the Internet
you can probably find some of them
what I like best is
when I get replies to my blurbs
mostly threats and insults
when I get the notifications in my email
I laugh my fucking ass off!
it ain’t much, I know, but when you’re slowly
dying in a shit little town in Ohio
it’s something.

More about Jim Wittenberg

Amanda Deo


Item by Cheryl Townsend


I pillow talk & sit in the back of your truck & my every thrill is bitten back by baby teeth. I don’t know what you mean to her & I don’t know how to conquer you in this state. The day you became a father I couldn’t get wet. I barely had room to say I’m sorry. All my drunk dials were put on hold.

Sometimes I almost forget they’re there. Sometimes I whisper bastard under my breath.

John Sweet


City Shells by Kristin Fouquet

these days, wasted

like lions in the desert she says
but the truth is less obvious

find the point of entry,
and then name it

bugs everywhere, and mold, and rot

roads paved and then cracked
and then paved again

doesn’t signify anything, but it should,
and so you drive 200 miles in a
car with no shocks, no radio,
no windshield wipers, and arrive just
in time to clean up the blood from
the bathroom floor

you ask the child where his
mother is, and all he does is cry

every true story ends with the
death of someone’s dreams

More about Kristin Fouquet