Listen to a reading of “These are my best gifts:” by Logen Cure.
a slick liar’s tongue, the charm of a petty thief, ribs like a junkyard dog, a space on the other side of an ampersand.
I want you to have them & have them & have them, please;
they & I are for you.
I used to carry secrets like marbles in my mouth; I laugh without choking.
You know to hold a piece of an infinite heart without asking it How much?
About the author:
Logen Cure lives in Texas with her
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Listen to a reading of “Portraits” by Mihaela Tudor.
It was part of his world This capsule of sequential times, Since there was never nothing else between a and b, the drawers with carnival masks, A feast of disguised breakdowns, Or spoiled ups by fearful looks So that he could emerge from polished ways To split to an end imperfect facades; I loved him with imaginary wings.
It was part of me To push open windows toward limitless ends, And edgy crevices beyond our loving nothingness, So he loved me with imaginary warm winds.
It was part of ecstatic coming
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Listen to a reading of “Brief Reflections on the Post-Apocalyptic Moment when We Will Have to Love Robots” by Matthew Yasuoka.
1. On your first date with a robot they will ask you if you are a 1 or a 0, while watching you eat your chicken carbonara, in some cheesy retro diner, with floral wallpaper, hanging like banana peels from the white plasterboard.
They will think this is romantic like a seventh-grader on their first date at McDonald’s wearing their flyest Yu-Gi-Oh T-shirt. They will tell you, I’m saving this moment to my hard drive not my ram and
» Continue reading Brief Reflections on the Post-Apocalyptic Moment when We Will Have to Love Robots by Matthew Yasuoka…
Listen to a reading of “Family Tree” by Ira Dawson.
This tree is where my father hung himself when I was 12. His purple, foaming face is etched on the back of my eyelids, permanently. The branch he jumped from was taken by the wind a few summers ago, its absence reinforces the fact that Dad is still gone. This tree is where my brother hung himself when I was 19. My mother owns this image, as I was at school. The way I watched her wither, I assume she saw the purple and foam. Three up from the
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Listen to a reading of “THE PINK SLIP” by Marcus Slease.
THE PINK SLIP or und wir ziehen die Bayern die Lederhosen aus
A Bavarian named Frank tells them the history of each beer. Zofia films from the corner. After each history lesson they drink the beer in question. It’s not long before they ask Zofia to say cock and then pussy. They ask her which word she prefers. She says cock. Zofia has a Slavic accent. Jill asks Andy which he prefers. Andy gives her the duh look, then says pussy in his Utah accent.
* * *
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Listen to a reading of “Ellipsis is every Futurist’s three bodyguards in shades…” by Eldon Reishus.
Six-feet-nine in my slippers, I carry that benched-by-life aplomb that is characteristic of tall men severely handicapped at basketball. A Futurist with a Ph.D., I get a morbid kick out of David Letterman—the guy who does surveys at the Plaza Mall out front of Rayguard’s. People assume he’s his namesake/lookalike until they realize he’s minus ironic zingers, but by then he’s captured most of Rayguard’s wants (…).
We spin through dark matter at 7500 MPHeartbeat. Having a face like Dave is a license to
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Listen to a reading of “the landfill electric” by Daniel Woody.
a geology professor told me about the trash situation she was from somewhere i don’t remember she said you americans your waste it’s not like this in europe she would say things like in europe in other places on the other side of the atlantic etc but never where really
she told me you americans you throw out everything everything is in there there is sofa hair table harmonica celery button refrigerator nails grass motorcycle drywall fiddle cigarette litter diaper glasspane stepmother sabbath july freedom credit family north korea
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Listen to a reading of “Ode to Stephen Graham Jones” by Heather Foster.
A university art gallery, a rambling speech about his obsession with Goodwill, his first time in Kentucky. He isn’t graceful. There’s a bit of a skittery charm in his dimples, his southern twang, the boyish brag of a bike wreck.
But when he reads, he’s a gingerbread Jesus— each story, each preface, a gospel, his skin poreless, bronze buttery leather— his hands a dove beneath the worn book’s spine. The Adam’s apple soft, barely obvious— his fumbling um, a throbbing hypnosis in a perfect throat.
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Listen to a reading of “A New Space” by Caitlin Barasch.
I brush my teeth on the patio, rinse and spit with the hose. The sun makes sweat bullets of my armpits. I drive to the store for eggs and chicken and a pint of ice cream, opening the sunroof in the rain. My fingers tap out a beat on the steering wheel as I sing in the shower. My daughter accompanies me on the grand piano in the backseat, balancing the keys on her lap. She doesn’t know much and won’t be good. I drop her off at soccer
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Listen to a reading of “” by Randolph Pfaff.
I am afraid of you speaking to old photographs instead of me. Of the morning sun burning my name into wet cement as I sit in a chair, the window looking through me all afternoon.
The world outside is learning a language I cannot understand. If the drowning light and the rising wind are signs of change, they don’t know enough to recognize it for what it is.
One thing bleeds to another. Twilight is fuel for the dreaming; sunsets are rouge for clouds. The mystery was how to make every
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