Page 2 - Issue 163 News Today

Inflation made buzz-chasing a group effort, & so we’d throw in our fivestil’ they added up to an offer worth the weedman’s crosstown trek.Split & gut-dump cigarillos preparing for the arrival of our cologne.Our blood-shot slits. Our giggle fits we were too man to call giggle fits.& in da homie’s sky blue big body, we cruised the countrysideof our small college town searching

The Pennsylvania snot otter, endangered, leads the news crawl,trends above POTUS, also endangered, while Mike Kappel,self-proclaimed serial entrepreneur, hawks Patriot Software.Oh, boy. Crowded. Last summer Greenland was cloudless—cloudless! clutched in earth’s blue curve. On every prior flightin high-latitude light—veiled, ice-mizzled, boundless… 

I read how candles made from human fatglow brightest, how everythingcan be seen in that light,hunger, you.I remember and forget your face.it may be what Enheduanna,Sumerian moon priestess,wrote:            my beautiful face is dust.a river sings near your grave.I tell you of a manwrapping his body in newspaperbefore putting on clothes.he spoke of a bombed kitchen wall,women

Looked at me, cocked two fingers like a pistol, gently pressed them into my sternum and said: "There is a place in there, untouched by space and time where you are solid as an onion, packed with buried beauty, with translucence born of darkness, where you arequiet as a chapel empty of all echo."º"Okay, cool," I said. "I'll keep that in mind."ºBut he was not finished:"Know that

The adventurer had been dying for thirty-seven hours now, though her death had begun several weeks before. It was no one’s fault but her own. Her hand slipped, the knife lost purchase on the hard wood of the log, the blade bit the tender webbing of her thumb. The cut bled, but it wasn’t deep—barely a little slit, nothing more than you’d get chopping carrots in a kitchen, and

When you finish burning, what’s left sends a black thread of smokethrough fresh ash like a handwaving the last of us away.You didn’t ask to return,if you did, God never answered,passing your request to some minor deity,some lesser bird of paradise.Nonetheless, you’re here,your body the shape of a milk snake,whale shark, dust devil—something only appearing to be

A thousand large wings; the tickings and tocksof a thousand small clocks; fifty sprung springson the dark dark sidewalk; sometimes, I say,it’s like padlocks tsking around their keys; burning sod; burning trees; burning knee sockscracking blackly on their pins; picture breeze,    I say, when you’re dying to sleep; it pings   your lips like pine shade; blood is not it; day-light

But sometimes waits for years to see it pass overheadmaybe it coasts elegant as a white boator rides loose and wild as gray hair torn from sleep,and when it disappearsthe same wind that pushes it from viewencourages the tree to say goodbye, leaves flashing like minnows—

It became a time when song no longer soaredbut climbed, hand over hand up a taut rope. One cracked voice was all it took. Cathedrals bombed and gone, carcasses opened to the sun,their old hysterias leaking out as new wisteriatwined slowly round. When the war finally came, it surprised us all by how old-fashioned it was, with a clattering hail of gunfire, shells falling like

Breakfast did not taste normal, so I went to Gilcren, questioning.He cracked me on the face and said there were ants in the cereal, which was of course my fault. I had, years ago, dislearned, which made me always to blame for trouble of this kind. I have an idea how this will sound, but events do map a life. Smarting from Gilcren’s hand, I came again to the single fact: