Page 26: You Can Sleep When Ur Dead by Erica Brunner

You can sleep when you’re dead,

that’s what Prisilla told me.
I had no idea

where I was,
but I was at the Command Center
in Oakland
in a warehouse.
Sliding metal doors
blended into stained concrete.

Prisilla talked about
Gary Glitter, Slade,
the disco ball she owned,
how she couldn’t stop moving,
how every wardrobe
should be composed of
leather, lace, fringe, fur,
bones.

I was curled
on a mauve couch,
head rested on a cum stain.
The couch,
on a riser
next to a hot tub

out of commission
because of fungus.
The riser doubled
as a stage.

My bed, a stage.

Prisilla wanted me to stay awake
so she had someone to dance with.

My eyes, concrete.

Prisilla wanted me to stay awake
so she wouldn’t go back to Angel’s room.
His room, covered in mirrors.
Where sex became about you and the mirror.

From high ceilings dangled
green and blue planets,
televisions mounted to walls
played Star Trek episodes
none
synced to the others.

Angel covered me with a blanket
the scar on his upper lip
so deep,
he whispered,
how can I resist,
those eyes.

The water in the morning was cold.
There was a television covered
in plastic
in the shower.
I washed myself
and watched Star Trek.

Page 72: I Will Never Hit Anyone Ever by Sarah Green

I Will Never Hit Anyone Ever by Sarah Green

Amanda doesn’t know she’s seven poets

All of them suffocated by their own mothers’ handbags hiding gateway drugs

Illiterate screaming from a room down the hall and a man whose silhouette isn’t

symmetrical with the floor

paces aimless authority and shuts her up with this thumbs in the grape skin light of 5am

Continue reading

Page 194: A Case of the Mondays by Sam Finer

A Case of the Mondays by Sam Finer

“The El Paso County Medical Examiner stated that neither an autopsy nor toxicological tests were possible due to the nature of the accident and the condition of the remains.”

I saw some pictures of a man today –
or what used to be one, anyway.

He was filtered
through the turbine of a 737.
Dented blades ground bone to powder.
Burned crisps blasted out behind.
Scraps of red ringed around the bowl
with a lump of melted fat pooling
on the rim, probably dripping
onto the runway with the rest of him.

At least it was over fast.

Continue reading

Page 25: Quarantine by Lea Ceasrine

Quarantine by Lea Ceasrine

“You lying, no good pendejo” she screeches from the streets,
talking to her boyfriend, f*** buddy, papi chulo,
the categories seem harmonious in the night,
when tequila and love collide.
His replies disintegrate amongst
the honking, the sporadic sirens,
and I assume they’ve made peace.
I press my coral cheek against the window,
fidget with the blinds,
and wait for the conversation to proceed.
Somebody talk to me- I’m six floors high- losing my mind
“Baby, please” pendejo pleads, clenching his Mickey D’s.
She, I, we, refuse to be your happy meal anymore.
Dionne returns home with McNuggets,
harp-shaped lips humming “I’m not lovin’ it”
she hates grease, but loves the musical.
“Why are you awake baby girl?”
Shh, the street is speaking to me
Melodious and congruous with Selena
Here in my room dreaming about you and me
She rocks me to sleep on the anniversary of her death,
as I surrender eavesdropping to the stars and the streets.