Why are they whispering? Wait, why is he looking at me? They’re both looking at me. I didn’t do anything. I totally didn’t do anything. Stop looking at me.
October 20 by Margaret Ozmet
Category: Miscellaneous
Invisible by Molly Seale
I’m not very good at meeting famous people.
Buenos Aires by Rose Hunter
That morning I woke up with a heavy head. The air was thick with smoke and blaring TV filled the cramped hotel room. I’d woken up earlier and turned the TV off, but Jack had turned it back on. Then I’d turned the volume down, and he’d turned it back up.
Comprehension by Erika Dreifus
… I spend most of my time trying to narrow down a dissertation topic. But I am in Paris, after all.
Glitter by Rose Hunter
One night the guy in the downstairs apartment … cut his wrists and took a bunch of pills. Then he knocked on my door.
Los Angeles, 1965 by Ruth Keally
A memoir poem…
Urns by Nicole Oquendo
There’s not much about my father that I actually know. What I think I know now is that he’s getting skinnier by the year and old enough to stop doing things as he used to. Until the last few years or so, my father, in his sixties, passed for forty to strangers.
1977 by Peter DeMarco
The bathroom of the 7-Up plant in the Bronx is an artist’s canvas for pornographic drawings. A giant penis, balls with hair, vaginas, large-lettered dirty language. A perverse form of hieroglyphics. This new, raw world is a wonderment, far away from green suburbia.
Depressive Episodes by Thomas DeMary
At the train station, Amber greeted me with bells on. Underneath a school-girl uniform, crotchless panties tinkled the chime of a lone brass bell. I spun her love atop my fingertip, dribbled between my knees and launched the fadeaway jumper. Returning from dinner, she asked, “How come you don’t hold my hand anymore?” I called her a bitch. The comparison of a lover to a female dog conjured a deeper truth.
My Mother, The Darwinist Shopper
In the catacombs of the Belz Factory Outlet Mall hung a pair of rayon Day-Glo orange shorts with a fat black elastic waistband, the missing piece to my patchwork fashion sense. My mother didn’t flinch when I pulled it off the steel carousel with “clearance” in starburst font on top.
