Thomas Hubbard

The real uncle sam

GIs came home after WW2, raised hell for a while,
then found a wife and looked around for a house. 
Markets provided prefabricated house kits, delivered to your lot.  Pre-fabs. 
Buy them on the GI Bill. Put them up in a few days.  Crackerbox houses. 
Square, plain, two bedrooms, kitchen, bath and living room.  Plywood.  A
few of them are still around.  Crackerbox houses.

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Judith Camann

Thoughts Are Not Feelings

Between blankets and sleep, sleep and death rolls hard red apples, day old
bread, liverwurst, fingerless gloves, frayed shoelaces, nine pregnancies, six live
births, red-brick walls, tarnished forks with bent tines and a topless jelly jar where flies
procreate. My thighs wake to cold.

Not snow-cold children pray for with carrot nose snowmen sledding down hills.
Not ice cold cubes clanging against sides of a sparkling tumbler swishing an orange rind,
maraschino cherry, barrel-aged rye, and a sugar cube. Not chills or sneezes.

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Sam Roxas-Chua


Several times I asked my father
to pull on my ears
until my feet were lifted off the ground.

Several times I asked him
to look into my eyes
and blow out the red lanterns—

those soft pendulums
that keep me up at night,
twin stars of vermillion arias.

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Margaret Roncone

I Fall in Love with a Photo of e.e. cummings in a New Yorker Magazine While in the Waiting Room of an Opthamologist’s Office

it's black and white

he's looking intently

away from the camera at

a parade of lower case 'i’s

a hyphened world

linear time and rhyme

disappear in a desert

of white stallions

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Dorothy Lemount


When all becomes quiet and still

 I always find myself looking for the person I used to be. 

When all endings become beginnings and

The hours seem to have dissolved into 


I always find myself wondering

Where have I been? 

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Lew Jones

I Saw the Crows of Summer Charge the Powder Blue Sky

I saw the crows of Summer charge the powder blue sky

Roadwork on the freeway could not stop their mission

Technology w/ all its posture could not halt their flight

Like midnight ink splattered on sunny white sheets

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Hamish Todd

I walked up the pavement and there, much to my delight, was a tienda, a store selling beer and wine and hard liquor, jammed full of people.  I bought a big 40 oz. can of Tecate’.  There was a quaint little park almost directly across the street from the store.  I sat down at a bench, intending to pull out my weed and pipe and have a little toke to go along with my beer.

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David Fewster

In Salem, the winter fog settles at sundown
like gauze, blinding and oppressive,
a cold, wet blanket of
Fuck You For Being Here.
On such an evening, I imagine
John Fahey in some shithole welfare hotel,
perhaps the Holiday Lodge on Hawthorne.

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