Two Poems

by Maria Ng

Sad Love Letter for Chris Evans

Chris Evans forgot to save

the world  the other day.

He left us hanging

by Liberty's torch.

Went to the movie theater

to forget that Tumblr existed.

Watched the Avengers and

wondered what the girl

with the iPhone was doing.

Looking at Chris Evans

standing in front of a sparkly

GIF with those patriotic


I don't even

like gym sweat.

But I was told a man

should be tall and

able to hold me and

become my cradle.

Feed me all

of your power.

More popcorn for

the mouths of the poor

instead of populating

illuminated theater carpets.

Every form of

art has a contradiction

just like the human race,

and it is beautiful.

Captain America is

my favorite myth.

Luscious shampooed locks

and clothed in imperial stripes.

Squeezing our hands

for an extra dollar.

I am the many languages

and flesh colors

that stain the


But white-washed

with red blood and

blue tears.

And then I'm choking up English.

Decolonize my heart Chris Evans.

I know you're incapable of doing that.

Dismal GiGi

I had a one night stand 

with a man with no name.

Was it Matthew he whispered?

And I leave with

impurities dotting

my inner thighs.

I tell BiBi to leave Henry

so I can cuddle with more

sheets of hers and then we

could share coffee and croissants.

I smoke a cigarette 

and let the smoke

nestle in my hair.

My collagen 

sighing and sagging,

absorbing all the toxins

that also lay between my lips.

And the taste buds

die and wither as

the heat spreads

upon them like

jelly on an English

muffin, along with

the black coffee’s

bitter grains.

I burn my sheets 

every once in a while,

when they rest underneath

a neglected iron,

as I try to

burn off

all the sins.

After pushing 

Matthew out

of my square

and rubbing


on the traces

he left on my cheeks,

I claw my face 

to get rid of them,

before having

BiBi with me.

But in return,

the skin remains

resilient. Exposed.

Maria Ng is a New Yorker living in New Jersey. She hides behind laptops quite often.

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3 Poems

by Mark Young

a culmination of battles decided by superior numbers

                             The River Thames allows
                                             one to retain a favorite
                                 flavor of instant noodle
                 but insists on sticking
                               solar panels to its bridges
                    to take advantage of
                                         any anthemic song
                          that might happen by.
                   Good clinical dentistry
                                    is no longer enough—
                          too many cranberries!


pristine embankment

The tide pools are a
publicized piece of

toxic waste that can
improve the military's

ability to detect bio-
logical agents when the

concrete is too smooth,
the water too blue.


candy & nuts

                            Bulk dried fruit bins
           filled with all kinds
                                   of organs & tissue
                  may only be redeemed
                        for high pressure welders
          after you are approved as
                            an industrial chemical
                   donor & registered in
                               accordance with the
             Domestic Animals Act of 1994.

Mark Young is the editor of Otoliths, lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, &
has been publishing poetry for more than fifty-five years. His work has been widely
anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. He is the author
of over twenty-five books, primarily poetry but also including speculative fiction & art history.
A new collection of poems, Bandicoot habitat, is due out from gradient books of Finland later
this year.

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Four Poems

by Fahad Baseer

A boombox hangs from the ceiling
of a tunnel. Behind Rob’s house
I walked through it once on a run
I don’t remember his cat’s name
It was one of many found dead
We all knew, but kept out mouths
shut. Didn’t talk about cat related
nouns. Boombox. Painted using
stolen paint marker. It was gold
or silver. Through the static shined
emerged. Arrived Rob. Still.
Stiller than voices with bodies
could ever aim to achieve. Still
Still searching for that cat. He
emerged. Arrived with all knowledge
of what went on in his house without
him. The house in which someone
carved on the plaster. where 666
used to be. The rants are now
broken pieces of a house. Some
framed. Some kept and forgotten.
There were also drawings there.
The plaster could cover up the punch
but not the idea behind it
so I carved. Eat this house.
Not while I was there
and sometime before the emergence
The house ate itself
The golf course dried up
Hanging from the ceiling
painted haphazardly.
before ranting/scratching/drawing on the wall
before having no self left to paint
you painted yourself on Casio Canvas
Hanging from the only thing left
from the youth of many
emitting slices of the idea of
a dead friend. There are perhaps
Bird feeders for even the most complicated




Blindfolded Ballerinas
Crash and then change
Composer watches carefully
Changing as well
With each crash
The sonification of
The choreographer
A ghost of one perhaps
Men and women
Left in a room
Set in motion
Set to generate
Set to crash

Slingshot of Oldmanburg
Insert human brain
Aim towards the fence
The one in front
Of the experience tree
Release and repeat
With your mind
Every time it grows back
Visit the Slingshot of

This sentence is so pregnant with meaning
Inflate sentence until it pops
Pump reads "sperm"
Sperm reads random quote from Billy Madison




Hand-cranks turned by broken hands
broken gradually
by specific gestures
specific tasks.
The same gesture applied
elsewhere could call a cab.
Whether you
are in the city
Or far from any architecture whether it be
physical, musical, actual, or astral or. or. or.
There are no hands broken, by things better
done. consumed by. better spoken with things
other than
So we find that hands can only be broken
by other hands and we need to better
equip ourselves with a better understanding
of hands

The signer signs my poems
To the new kid in the class.
An older lady actually.
A professional of some sort.
With owl eyes




8 amps encircling an audience
Preferably members of NASA
I orbit around them
I stop at each amp
Changing the loop
Adding a layer
Cheap looper made
Specifically for each amp
Amp-specific loopers
Made specifically for me
Specifically by
Members of the NASA

Intonarumori houses
Inhabited by cellists
Neighborhood walk
When you stand in
That specific spot
Between her house
And the fourth dot
You hear something
The sonification of
The end of houses

NASA designed a new type of
Places NASA Nachos in
Empty closet
Along with Noise Embryo
Along with a student
Along with red
Jesus lights
Lights made specifically
For Jesus
Jesus-specific luminosity
Along with collaging materials
Release for bathroom break
Enter closet and wai
Attack student with
More NASA Nachos
Brought to you by NASA

Egg shaped room called
An installation designed
Carpet, wallpaper, candles
From Walmart


Check out more from Fahad here

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Memorial Day

by Julie Davis

the other night
when the shadow of the guitar
smeared on that fake pup’s face
made the real pup jealous
and anxious

grass stains on my lips
little cuts
whistlin up and down
tan, pink, purple, red, black

white and blue
mega color bubbles and
old biscuits and ½ beers
on our tongues
on the floor
on you

slick, slip down the hill
step over chess and strangers
lunge forward
go, don’t stop
maybe turn around
just once

we’ll all end up at home in the end

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by Harrison Parks 

your face is like the author in Happiness:

only yours is rounder and prettier--
you are an improvement upon my favorite movies:
you are real and breathing and beating--

so i will scour for things:
things that you might want to devour
or perhaps imbibe--from tamales to dirty chai.
not just any tamales--

the kind of tamales one finds sold in coolers:
when drinking at just the right moment--
tamales that cost less than a dollar each:
tamales that are BBQ tamales, food of the gods--

and i run through the rain
of my imaginary world
where i deliver to you every
tamale you've ever wanted to eat.

plato's tamales. every ideal tamale
can be yours in my imaginary world:
the place where you and i exist
as more than a facade.

Read this poem and more in Harrison's ongoing project The Banter Ship

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