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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VI, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..

..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: 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


a crutch
Pete Zeller


Step with me, back, away,
Into my Lunar Excursion Module.
You make me drip like Special K.
I ask nothing but mangroves.

Cold is a statement of cold.
Where surroundings dictate your reason.
Manacles are most Junior, most
Carpathian. Almost Wilsonian.

You who write in small notebooks.
You expect something, I assume.
We are apart from largesse.
She and multiple she, they chuckle.

Over and aboard, this humbling wanes,
We loathe it, we ask for thirds, we
Use it as time travel. No ducklings
Or postcards, instead of bacon.

Are flashlights unnecessary?
You might assume, but Warhol refused.
Dads reject what they can't inscribe.
Dearhorns became test subjects.

So is your mother home? I miss her.
Delirious was enough for me.
We wished this all away, each time.
A form of willful amnesia, dude.


//   Advance   //