Tuesday, August 21, 2007


By Alex Sears

All of my friends killed themselves last Wednesday, and I wrote seven
villanelles. Not only about my sadness, but about the color of the
flowers at their memorial services, and what I was wearing as their
parents cried, clutching family photographs and stuffed bears. I also
wore polka dots when I last had an abortion. I drew a heart on my
calendar in permanent pen, and the nurse told me she loved my shoes
and matching handbag as she siphoned my unborn child. I sighed and
wondered, what do stilettos matter when you've lost your virtue in
someone else's clawfoot tub. But who doesn't get raped after bubble
baths are promised over Happy Hour. And it was likely what I was
wearing: pearls. You can't buy a rape kit at an art supply store, but
you can sometimes buy knitting needles, which I shoved down my throat
after cupcakes. I read that this is not a good idea, and then broke
up with my boyfriend after he accidentally pushed me into a china
cabinet. I wrote a sestina before calling my parents, who divorced
when I was three and disowned me because I occasionally enjoyed
sticking my fingers inside other girls in college.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


a bankteller.
Hopscotch player
and .38 bedwetter
(He swallows).

His middle name
appears blurred on
his ID,
but still uses it
to impress older
single sapiens
of macroorgasmics
capabilities and/or
innocent bystanders.

--L. Chávez Miranda
has more here

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Concerning Angels

The following is a piece from the think
tank of Michael Stewart. More of Stewart's
work can be found here

They are terrible with their unused teeth, sharp and small
like a child's, and their new skin. The navel-less bellies.

Of halos I am uncertain. Perhaps they shimmer in their
magnitude, but this myth of wings is ridiculous and
unnecessary. They are light enough to be carried on the
least of things, being merely the breath of God, made in
His mouth and emerging from His lips thin and improbable.

When we meet them in our trailers and used bookstores they
bring only proof of our neglect. They make evident our
unclean teeth, our petty shifting, the horrible movements
of our tongues.

They are full and we are not. They give no place to enter.
The force of their voice is such as to not admit another
tongue in their mouths. Their other lips when parted lead

--Michael Stewart

Thursday, February 22, 2007


This is a new "literary" mag I'm starting up. Submit at: funkmasser at yahoo dot (you know the rest) com.