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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume IX, Issue II

..:: 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

 
Poetry


(Spill-O's Happy Hour and Beyond)
Colin Dodds

 

Between his office and his apartment,
between his penance and his lesson,
Spill-O labors—a slave to solitude
or a slave to something stranger.
Because work is the love that lived
through the disaster of winter and the orgy of spring.

Listening to the businessmen under their bullet points,
synthesis sounds like Sisyphus.
But he focuses on the fickle goddess of money,
who alternately gluts and cuckolds him.
He charts the Oedipal pyramids, organizational pyramids,
food pyramids—all the maps that matter.

A dream needs dollars
or it will die of its own survival.
Spill-O goes into the bathroom stall
to check how much money is left in his wallet.

Broke but unbroken,
he says they can take away the heat,
take away the lights for all he cares.
He won't stop until he's undone or outdone
all that they've done to him.

 

 

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