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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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

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Michael Grover


Spraypainted Reminder by Kristin Fouquet

Writing Viciously

To write viciously
Cleaning the mind of words
To scratch on the page with a pen
Ink like blood
Scratched on bleached white flesh
Words tattooed on flesh
Is to speak your mind
Is to not want the other person
To see what you’re writing about them
Because it’s too fucking honest
Is in another state of mind
Is to not give a fuck
About the asskissers anymore
None of that shit is Poetic
Is to be terrified
That you might not write enough

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