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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume XI, 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
   Volume X, Issue I
   Volume X, Issue II

 
Poetry


VGAVHS
Qal LaFountain

 

An obtuse chef with tattoos in places, travelling aboard a cruiseliner named 'The Classic American Barge', in month six of instructing a culinary class on the vessel as a means to visit Istanbul, Sharpied, with frustration, the following letter addressed toward the tourists, (but formally, to the captain's office, a friend from days past, One Young Boy now One Young Man, and simultaneously the reason that a) the chef was given the position and b) the letter has been restored and reproduced in print after the sinking of 'The Classic American Barge' in which none, but the chef, were killed) who would, purportedly, berate him, their primary means of attack the square flexboard comment box set yards away from the galley's secondary kitchen designated as the site for the chef's limping efforts in culinary instruction. Below, the postmortem report of the chef, known only by those consulted as Seventh Grade Teacher, reads in tangents, and seems to be aimed at articulating Seventh Grade Teacher's frustration with a) the tourists on board, specifically those who maximized the comment box and b) a greater aversion toward finding himself a toiler in the finite human condition which we all unknowingly, and to varying degrees of acceptance, adopt upon ejection from our respective maternal residencies. The following letter has been restored in its full form, and should be taken not as any official document, but rather as an artifact from the sunken vessel, one which, had it sailed across calm waters, and had it been outfitted by engineers more skilled, could have provided vast numbers of sea-bound tourists with the deeply human joys offered by marine escape...

Brood,

How you think I'm gonna act, like I got a
Dozen wings? No. I see they think I'm aimed to
Magnify my quality. Well just so you know, I'm no
Illness by any scent like the rest of these buzzards get to think.

In fact, the fact they all think my meanderings represent my class or upbringing, financial or
otherwise, makes me very very very salty.
Seems an apology be of most appropriate departure from the thoughts and mouths of they all.

Now,

Calypso Pasta Prep is a process I'm learning slower than I'd like. But
Artichoke Biscuits, now they a smooth ride. Please
Tell me one reason why each and every
5th grader on this boat has me pegged a tyrant.

Seeing through my frames is losing its spark.
Failing toward failure translated to sound through harp adagio a semitone below the given voice
to words and these turns of phrase hairpin.

Untidy room describes what's at the core of my humanity. I'm
Sorry, but you may not bring that smelly rag in here. Like
Bundling it beneath apathy is going to fool me.

Pluck apart the frame now we seeing you in mad seminal ways.
Illmatic is this new found vision.
Filter looks dirty but the water surges clean.
I have more stillnesses than they thought.

Platinum cars I do not have, but I will
Slip you a bent dollar bill to sock that loose lipped
1st grader. Enemies of mine stand down swift.

I see no shortage of ornery opinions in the comment box today.
Brood, I seen you.
I seen you, Broo.

Automatic transmission on a car defaultedly manual is
Understandable, but only if the driver is prepped to get
Xtreme upon request.

In new defiant ways, I see you.
In old defiant ways, I been seeing you.
In violent ways, I been being seen with you, my Brood.
You know me, not as these others, but as you.
And you know sometimes I need to being heard,
but you don't respond, Brood, but you know I need listened,
Even back times, you knew I'd need a listen,
something these grafted ruiners don't keep as a peace I'm reaching.

Pulling out of port, I noticed a man, in one of my two side views,
Dashing through the street unhinged. Started
Fumbling my YakBak to describe this man before his pitch detuned to drone...

has been well-read and considered such by many...
is not concerned with current status as a novice fisherman..
has been well-fed and considered such by family..

.
W with its hat cocked rightward sets. Now I see you thinking I'm trying to
Approach you like a Pre-Disney Dingo. Seems
Very befitting given your tastes in animation.

Seriously,
Dam that image you been nursing

and let us start a harp-based band.
Tour the continent in a microphone-shaped car to show our dedication to the music.
It's all about the musings, Brood.
I'd need one stop to place there.
Just one obstacle, something to of you ask.
I
We
might have to cease in an area.
Got to show to you, for one minute, Brood, this one patch of ground...

Varieties of tall rabbit walked this ground here. In low
Grace, I here once fell, Broo. Real hard and
Angered was my state, so it maked more worse.

What about you, Broo?
Tell me about your first faceplant into the dirty dirt.

I enlarge this silence from you, Brood.
You never one to bounce it back.
Boldfaced when you know I been needing this.
You know I been needing to tell one someone how

Violently alone my state been feeling late.
How it felt when I felled myself here in this area just one week after
Stubbing my toe no more than one hundred years from this wooded doom.

Seems to just jump right out at you, don't it Brood.
Potential to just have your quality of life decayed right down near its quick,
fixes you drink the swill of a potion that coins a dimension where you, and me, Brood,
and all these other smarmy broods,
are going down,
and not collecting a rise back up from it.

 

 

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