..:: CONTENTS ::..

   Volume X, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..

..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I
   Volume VIII, Issue II
   Volume IX, Issue I
   Volume IX, Issue II


Up at Pop Culture City
Raymond Farr


The end is a radio wave
Whose origin is a nauseated human

         Just yesterday
The dog was ironic fodder

Like Elvis's hips—too fluid to sculpt
                                          To script

He was belching up Nathans on Nietzschean TV

              To make the pigs marvel
He fires up the Klimt machine—

A monk is a station
A someone gets off there


Nothing about
Antiquity's posed

Is scatological

A balloon of the unsettled mind
Indulges the mountain

Seems to dwell on "F" haphazardly
As is evidenced by

One going into zero
Or the nerve we can't feel

It is the rubble of nexus loving nexus
It is the ash of a moth amorous about conflagration

Smashing its skull
Up against Sunday's blank wall

I say,

Just go there, Sheila
& dig the scene


Manufacture instruction manual
To penalty box

In a space you can't quite



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