Caitlin Hoffman

Posted: February 17, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
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David Lohrey

Posted: February 16, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

Hand to Mouth

 

We die alone because old people stop fucking.

Once you give up sex, you’re on your own.

That so-called friend, your partner, no longer

returns your phone calls.

She’s found someone, as people used to say.

 

She’s found somebody else is a polite

way to say she’s no longer fucking you.

Dating is not about popcorn.

More than friends is the opposite of only.

 

Who controls the hands, controls the sex.

Your life is in her hands.

Hold them (down), tie them (up), or cuff them:

there is no on the other hand.

Her hands are all over the place.

 

What he needs is a hand job.

But you can hold his hand instead.

Go ahead, if it’s clean.

Isn’t that what “give your hand in marriage”

means?

 

Stolen kisses.

He had a hand in it. He conned her out of it.

The crime of the century was an act of indiscretion.

He pinched her bottom but she didn’t flinch.

Give an inch and he’ll take a mile.

 

Copulation won’t prevent death.

I never said that.

It’s Philip Roth’s brutal insight I have in mind:

Without sex other people don’t matter.

Without sex, there’d be nothing but hand to hand combat.

 

Jessica Gleason

Posted: February 16, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

Remembral

 

Five years ago,

I wrote about

aging.

In my late-twenties,

I struggled with

being rounded,

all soft corners

instead

of sharp edges.

Peddling my

woe is me

poems across the web.

In re-visiting

those words,

now in my

thirties

I long for

that

roundness

that

I hated

so

so

much.

 

Now, while still rounded,

I’ve started seeing

cracks in my

surface.

Skin

splitting where

once it was

a smooth

placid

slate covering

my muscles

and

bones.

Things sink

into

these new

cracks.

Food.

Specks.

Crumbs.

Makeup.

Those of us

without

disposable thousands

watch

as time

deteriorates

our

outer

shell.

I am

vein.

We are all

to some

degree

vapid.

 

But, beyond that,

my insides

are starting

to rot.

Five years ago, I had

most of my

organs.

Today,

I do

not.

They move, shuffle around,

inside of

my body.

They stop

functioning

as they were

intended

to do.

 

Surgeons with

sharp instruments

cut them

out and

study them

to see

what

went

wrong.

There is a dent,

a cavity,

in my torso.

It once held

an organ

that I will

never hold

again.

I cannot eat

what I want.

I cannot sleep

how I like.

I take pills

each

night

before

bed. They help,

but they do not

fix.

They do not

restore.

They simply

placate my body

for the

better

portion

of a

day.

And,

I wonder.

In five more

years,

will I think

this is

whiney?

Will I

be

empty?

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi

Posted: February 10, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

 

 

NOMENCLATURE

After a certain age
there are no secrets,
only issues.
One or two things
are obscured,
even from ourselves.
These aren’t codes
of confidence but
burdens.

 

Tom Hatch

Posted: February 10, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

A Dance

Simple Life?
She puts on
Michael Buble with a sigh
He sings Leon Russell’s
“A Song For You”
We dance and sing
I spin and fall
Dislocating my
Finger after all
On the floor

The Emergency Room
Wants and will bill $500 bucks
The doctor relocated my
Dislocated finger
I howled
The beautiful black
Nurse with blond hair
Rubbed my legs up and down
It feels better don’t you think
She said
Don’t Stop I want my
$500 bucks worth, I said
Blond hair
She has Blond hair
$500 dollars she makes it fine
My wife paid the bill
what the fuck

 

 

Randall Rogers

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Haiku, Musing
Tags:

Boxing the wind
I knocked the North Pole
Out cold

Michael Marrotti

Posted: February 6, 2017 in Fiction, Flash
Tags:

pittsburgh

Pittsburgh Culture

I walked up on stage like I was a nobody amongst a timid crowd, who would have had an orgasm after a single touch. The spotlight was beaming on me, the guy who traveled from Andy Warhol’s old neighborhood to recite a few pieces of poetry.

The first stanza mentioned a vagina, you know, the kind certain woman share with the social media world via Tumblr or snap chat. They appeared to be nervous. I shifted the position of my ass in the wooden chair to begin the second stanza.

This one mentioned chlamydia, you know, the sexually transmitted disease most of the millennials carry around like an iPhone. I took a look at the crowd after that to see giant eyeballs, taken aback, like I was reciting Anti-Semitic literature, after they snorted an Adderall.

There’s no turning back now, so I continued onto the last stanza. It mentioned an orgasm, you know, the kind we all had before this waste of time, also known as the open Mic. Where people come to share their art with an uptight crowd. The same people who belittle Trump every chance they get, but then emulate Mother Teresa, ’cause that’s the type of behavior that exists in this pseudo-liberal town of Pittsburgh.

I was banned after that night for enticing people to think about their own obscene actions. Christ, if I wanted to be upset, I could’ve stopped at my mom’s house. It’s less of a walk, and the vodka flows like the Allegheny river.