2010
09.30

He’s filthy
and he has
a bottle of vodka
and a greyhound.
His face is like
a bearded broken mirror
and his silver bitch
is magnificent.

When I look at him
I feel pity.
Pity for myself
that I have to be here,
with the soiled ones
who leer as I go
to buy bread
and cigarettes
even though I’m trying to quit.
Pity that I have live
amongst this shit
and look at gums
where teeth should be
and everything sounds
like a fight
whether it is or not.

He swigs from his vodka bottle,
looks at it
like I look at him
and we both shudder.


© Anna Russell, 2010
2010
09.29

I wasn’t planning on being here all night.  Hanging out with Rob at the bowling alley.
His treat.
Supposed to be bowling not sitting around drinking.
We’ve run into a couple of his friends.
Drinking.  Why am I drinking with him?  I’m dead broke;
I should be quitting.  Oh well.
My beer’s almost done.  I hope he buys me another one or we go soon.
Another one would be good.
Who the hell are these guys anyways?
I think he knows the skinny guy from that apartment in Angus.  He’s loaded.
He “loves my sister,” – well good for you; get over it buddy.  What’s he talking about now?  What’s wrong with him?  Is he crying?  He is.  What’s he crying about?

“Rob, I’m dying.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m dying, Rob.
I’ve got bladder cancer.
I’m dying.”

Why’s this guy drinking if he’s got bladder cancer?  Quit the booze, man, don’t give up.
Now where’s Rob going?

“Rob, Rob, wait up!”

Great, now it’s just me and this big guy.  He’s been pretty quiet.  Guess I should say something.  I can’t believe that guy’s dying, that’s nuts, I think he said he was 29.

“Does your friend really have bladder cancer?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t he quit drinking then?”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t want to.”

“Oh.”

Jeeze.  I wonder how well Rob knows that guy.  The apartment in Angus was what, three years ago?

“I only have half a brain.”

“Oh, really.”

Okay, what’s this guy talking about?

“I’m serious.
I was in a car accident ten years ago
and I lost half my brain.
I have a plate in my head,
– you can hear it; listen.”

Why is this guy telling me this – and tapping his head?  What the fuck?!?

“Can you hear it?”

“Yeah – that sucks.  I would never have known.”

Oh my God. What the hell am I supposed to say to that.  Half a brain?  Sure he seemed a little slow but…sure sounds like there’s a plate in there.  Where does Rob meet these guys?

“Well you’ve certainly come a long way then.”

“Yep.”

“Because you didn’t give up, right, and good for you.  Cheers to that.”

“Right.  Cheers!”

“You should always have hope, right?  I mean, just look at you, – you never gave up hope and here you are, ten years later.  Doing great, right?”

“Yep!”

“That’s why your buddy’s got to quit drinking.  He shouldn’t just give up hope.  He should be strong like you were, right?”

“Right!”

“Alright then.  I’m gonna go and check on Rob and your buddy – see what’s going on.

Well, that was weird.  Now where did they go.  Not over there – must be in the washroom.   I could really go for another beer.  There’s his friend; by the washroom like I thought.  Guess Rob’s inside.

“Hey man, what’s going on?”

“Rob’s upset.”


© Steven Tomlins, 2010
2010
09.28

My head lifts in time
for a green neck-
lace of beads
to smack my mouth.

The spheres recoil
and so do I,
my fingers entwining
around my jaw.

So, I am not the one
who almost eats
the plastic baby Jesus.

Within the King Cake,
he doesn’t cry.  He has
sugar for company.

And the knife simply
nudges those slices.


© Vanessa Johnson, 2010
2010
09.26

Giggling whores all lined up outside
lighting up,
taking drags from the townie dregs.
I’m thankful I don’t live here.
I order a gin and tonic,
extra lime.
I catch her calves as she heads out.
I follow, cigarette in tow,
knowing any idiot can chase a skirt.
I offer her a drink back inside,
and so we perched up into the night.
Fifty dollars later we trip on my
sixty year old typewriter,
whose bullets haven’t clicked in a long time.
She slides her straps over
those hooked shoulders,
and I see the present I can’t wait to open up.
She drops in front of me,
no hands.
no talk.
and when it’s all over
I climb between cool cotton and rest,
back turned,
door closed.
Her cash under the bed frame,
where it stayed as she walked away with an empty purse.


© Zach Fishel, 2010
[others]
2010
09.24

Once rabbits ran, tail flashing, delightfully
sweet-charming. Once inhabited pastures I
strode over, bearing spring-fed steel-toothed
traps. As a child. And my fingers knew blood

that cooled beneath their nails. It was death that I
bore unto each. From burrows they witlessly
ran headlong into death. My heart felt
thrashed out exhaustion, panic-glazed eyes

that stared with fear, stared witlessly. Coldly I
broke necks. Their breathing stopped, and their quivering
wet nostrils sought no more to grasp air,
feeding it life. I would take their broken-

boned limpness, have them lifelessly dangle in
tied braces, eyes glazed, back to my mother to
feed all with. Still, between the blood, kicked
dirt, and my home, I remember, once, how

clung tight with legs traversing a nostril, a
fly fed, the air congealing. I felt as if
the rabbit fed the fly its flown soul,
thrust from its lungs, through the broken-boned neck.

Perhaps I felt this metempsychosis, this
air’s passage made me Death. And remembering
the fly, the rabbit, maybe thought brings
meanings to bear–as if hindsight’s wisdom.


© Phillip A. Ellis, 2010
[others]