Fucking White Men by Patrick Trotti

February 8, 2014 at 4:35 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment
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J.D. Salinger makes an appearance
on “To Catch A Predator: North Woods Edition,”

Charles Bukowski caught
at the local OTB trying to steal someone’s winning ticket,

James Joyce auctions
off his eye patch on eBay to help him in between books,

Ernest Hemingway argues
about guns in front of a studio audience on “Piers Morgan Live,”

Jack Kerouac admits
on “Oprah” that the only reason he championed Neal Cassady was b/c they were lovers,

Franz Kafka is arrested
on suspicion of arson while trying to get rid of his final manuscripts before dying,

F. Scott Fitzgerald is taken
to court for his role in the death of Zelda;

All the while Jonathan Franzen is secretly
contemplating starting a personal Twitter account;
wondering if the next great American novel can really be titled hash tag.

“Naked Pictures Of My Ex” by Marco Sparks.

October 10, 2013 at 10:08 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment
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I can see you!

Switching from the old phone to the new phone. The folder entitled “Naked Pictures Of The Ex.” I go through the pictures, remember the good times, remember the bad times, critique the past, relive the sensations. It’s all fleeting. The memories don’t move in a straight line. They are ghosts out of context. I take the pictures from the folder and rearrange them. Dada zen nonsense. Lusty time travel art project. I will take the “Naked Pictures Of My Ex” and rearrange them and tell a brand new story with them.

2 Poems by Erick Saenz

September 24, 2013 at 11:01 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment
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Coffee in the 
bitter mornings
drenched in 
bright sun


Beer in the 
crisp evenings
basking in 
soft glow


in between


Fog town 



The sun is slowly
roasting my body.
I see a man fly overhead,
feet dangling like leaves.
I lay on face down.
I am invisible.
The ocean whispers my name.
Time to turn over.
Dinner is served.

What’s On My Mind by Greg Santos

September 23, 2013 at 11:15 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment
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I really identify with Amanda Bynes.

A group of sloths is called a bed of sloths.

Life on the internet is what you make it.


Can you get Google Glass contact lenses?

Should I change my profile picture?

It matters if you want it to matter.


Having a conversation with a friend.

If you are looking for a sign:



Has your life been disrupted?

You can pause the video.

You can get started NOW.


I’m enjoying all the leaves and green.

It’s perfect weather for a BBQ.

Bank presidents are not immune.


I wanna take a yoga class today.

There’s always something better isn’t there?

I’d better take an Instagram.

4 Poems by A. Lenkeit

September 18, 2013 at 1:35 am | Posted in poem | 1 Comment


“don’t do anything great”
“I’ve never done anything great”
“just be late for doctor’s appointments and take the bus and have a routine”
“I like routine”
“routine likes you”
“Untitled 31″


When I grow up
I want to die

and when I die
I want to be your headstone




I want to be:
your dog

I want to:
sit in your lap

I want to:

be kicked by you in a fit of rage regarding something else where you apologize to me later

I want to:
be unconditionally loved by you


I want to die:
in your bedroom where I feel safe


“Untitled 32″


be my private landlord

I want to pay rent on your body

I’ll even make

a security deposit

gives meaning


to a “new lease on life”

new wave (by candace holmes)

September 12, 2013 at 5:34 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment

chicago found summer empty
all purple with disappearance
a local girl detective picks apples every wednesday
she speaks of the environment, reverent
“protect god’s reflex: the octopus, red magic, full moon”
rabble rabble, she voices in tongues all summer long

underground soft metals churn,
dogs’ cadavers chit chat
and they guide the great
fields of illinois

“Like a Piece of Litter Floating in the Ocean” by Matt Margo

August 14, 2013 at 12:00 am | Posted in poem | 1 Comment

When I am woken up by the afternoon sunlight beaming through my window, sometimes I find myself lying in my bed in the same position that a corpse lies in its casket, and I think that this happens because sometimes I dream of dying and it just feels so right.

I have been listening to this album almost nonstop for the past two days:


I have always wanted to write a poem with a line consisting only of a hyperlinked URL and then self-publish that poem on the internet.

Even at my third birthday party, standing as a tiny humanlike shape among other humanlike shapes, I told all of my friends and family members that I wanted to write a poem with a line consisting only of a hyperlinked URL and then self-publish that poem on the internet.

And now I have achieved my dream at last and it just feels so right.


Hallelujah to all the dreamers of this world!

Write down your dreams so that they will still be materialized into concrete reality even if they never come true.

I write because there is nothing left to say, not because I want to say something.

If nothing else, I want this poem to serve as a personal reminder to you that nobody deserves anything from anybody and that it is okay—and likely—that you will die alone and shivering.

And yes, I have written many poems in many different styles, the only reason for my inconsistency as a poet being that I know nobody will ever care about my poetry.

Let me call you on a payphone somewhere in Indiana so that you can listen to my ghost leaving behind its machine from hundreds upon hundreds of miles away.

Let me take tomorrow’s sunset and run it through an online text scrambler and turn it into a traditional Elizabethan sonnet.

Tiny Hands by Cian O’Day

August 5, 2013 at 9:24 am | Posted in poem | Leave a comment

Life isn’t cruel.

In the moment we begin

there reaches


a tiny hand into

our lone, brief cell. That tiny hand

sets a timer

into our not-yet-formed

body: it inscribes

an expiration date

into our not-yet-formed


it hustles an addiction into

our not-yet-formed


it wires a bomb

into our



At least we can laugh

knowing that

God’s hands are

so tiny,

you know what they say about

tiny hands.

This Has Been My Summer by Hayley Vinson

August 4, 2013 at 1:48 am | Posted in poem | Leave a comment
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“That bitch, Jackie,

I hope her baby eats her from the inside.”

And we all agree.

And I have never really been comfortable

With anyone’s procreation.

“That guy, Gary,

What’s his deal?”

At that party when I knew no one.

And he had that “nice-guy-vibe.”

And his eyes were freedom like 9th grade driver’s ed.

“You know Cassidy,

Right? Movie theater guy.”

Because I gave him that poem about mattering as I tripped.

And it turns out he is an elf and I have met a magical elf.

And maybe I will live longer from meeting a magical elf.

“Oh okay,

THAT Nick.”

When I realized I am something weightless to hold onto.

And I can feel his soul still tangling against me.

And I know it does not matter, but it does.

4 Poems by Eric Larsh

July 31, 2013 at 2:58 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment
She is beautiful, and her language is French.
I don’t know what she is saying.
I tell her she is beautiful.
She doesn’t understand me.
Once I was told that I couldn’t live without it-
My breath.
I hold my breath on occassion.
Am I dead in those moments?
It is funny when I fall asleep, and I dream that I am falling.
That seems much like daily life to me.
Falling, but I am not unhappy.
Not floating, but elated.
Falling, but I am not scared.
Not floating, but doing fine.
It isn’t a dream that scares me, it is real life.
But, I am a man, alive, and I am not scared.
I feel detached, sometimes.
Then, I hear the voices of my brother and friends.
They tell me that I must push to attach, but they speak softly.
I still feel detached, sometimes.

serious question by ryan manning

July 3, 2013 at 9:34 am | Posted in poem | Leave a comment

do any hot girls read this

im sneaking YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL onto every page

May 28, 2013 at 2:08 am | Posted in poem | 2 Comments

im sneaking YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL onto every page of Wikipedia
in the hopes that youll stumble across it one day
while researching a paper
or trying to find out if that show
on nikelodeon with the 2 beavers you watched as a kid
really existed
im srry i broke your heart
what other outcome did you expect
when i saw you independent and proud
ive started to build things
chairs and fires and engines
in the hopes that i can train my hands
to know something other than deconstruction

i’m sitting in a waiting room with no clock
but its ok
i was never good at time management anway
there is no time anymore
just the present

and he tips his hat and goes off to buy gum

fuck these nights are killing me
meekly surrendering myself to paranoia
i hate the sun
i am an old shcool vampire complete
with crooked nose
fuck i am already dead
and then risen again
fuck it is lonely to be a vampire


and then you think of it that way
as time not existing in any concrete form
just one event after another like a string of christmas
lights except less likely to bring back waves of nostalgia
and you have to pull over and throw up out the window

slam my back against a wall
hold your hand around my throat
while the other grips a knife you got from
i should have left when you proposed we brand eachother


April 10, 2013 at 4:57 am | Posted in poem | Leave a comment

put an apple and a plastic baggie full of finn crisp into my backpack and found my keys and went to chinatown in chinatown i went to the asian grocery store in the asian grocery store i took a red plastic basket and walked about a meter inside inside there were tanks filled with many different kinds of animals crabs lobsters abalones shrimp prawns oysters all of these animals were in water and hanging out aimlessly there was a big tank at the top that was filled with king crabs these crabs were much bigger than other crabs and i guess that is why they cost more money i put my hand against the cold glass of the tank and a king crab stood up and greeted me i felt honoured but also bad and also stupid last week i went to the mall there are a couple malls here but i went to the really big one in the big mall there is a pet store where there are a lot of animals there are kittens you can see from outside of the store i dont have any pets but i went into the pet store to look around i took a squeaky toy from a shelf that was shaped like a cats face and walked around squeaking it at intervals i looked at the arrangement of animals it was a series of glass cubicles inside each cubicle was a creature it was a lot like those vending machines where you put in a coin and get a plastic thing with a toy inside they had a lot of different kinds of puppies they were really cute except they looked tired or worried or bored also inside of the cubicles there was shredded paper since when is it ok for them to eat that i wondered admittedly i wanted to play with them all there was one white dog which seemed older that was excitedly hopping around in a pen barking very loudly i started to feel dizzy and scared i pressed my hand against the glass of a cubicle a small puppy jumped and put his paws against my hand through the glass i guess what i am getting at is that i am easily affected by animals in cages

I wrote you a poem, deleted it and then wrote you this one by Eduardo Quinones

March 16, 2013 at 9:10 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment

I follow your trail,

Dead bodies in my kitchen pantry.
I’ve ordered Chinese take out
Come eat egg rolls with me
They took shrimp from the sea and murdered them, we eat the remains wrapped in fried dough.
When the aliens come they will find our fat bellies stuffed with dead animals then put us through a meat grinder and feed us to their pets, the aliens aren’t cannibals, vegetarians maybe.
I want to kiss your eyelids like in the movies, whisper have a nice sleep.
I seem to be able to only write love poems lately.
This is how you make me feel:
I am coming down from a trip, my body is tired but it feels good, like I can sleep in this state for ages and dream about your legs intertwined with mine, we are one or something, touching sounds vibrating on acid. I could die in this trance and not care what lies after. 

Unsent E-mail to a Right-Wing Friend by Ben Arzate

March 7, 2013 at 11:02 pm | Posted in poem | Leave a comment

My friend,

How are you?

I haven’t read that new essay you posted on your blog the other day. The one about Knut Hamsun’s political beliefs. I’ll try to get to it later today.

How’s your mother doing? You really need to introduce us soon, I really want to have sex with her. I know you think it’s weird, but I do.

Today I went to a used book store I hadn’t been to before. The guy who owns it is an anarchist too. Not a national-anarchist like you, or an egoist like me. He’s a left-wing insurrectionist. He told me he’d been planning to blow up the Iowa Capital Building, but he had a falling out with the people who were supposed to help him. He showed me a notebook he said had the plans in it. I think he showed me the wrong one. There were no plans in it, only poems about eating the assholes of dead young men’s cadavers. The poems were violently beautiful, like that scene in the Django Unchained trailer when blood sprays over a cotton field. I know you said you hated that movie. I haven’t seen it yet. I want to, though.

He sold me a book by Rudolf Rocker called Nationalism and Culture. It’s a thick and heavy hardcover. While I was carrying it home, I accidentally dropped it on a stray dog. I felt really guilty about that. I cried over its burst head for 2 hours. I don’t think I want the book anymore. Do you want me to give it to you? It still has some of the dog’s blood and brain meat caked on it.

I’m going to go jack off now. I’ll probably think about your mother while I do it.


Ben A.

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