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Poem: Zohra El Fassia by Erez Bitton
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Little tech puppies, well compensated for code/
that outsourced laborers will realize in supercheap,/
superchipped gewgaws, sip artisan beers
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On his last day of high school Jackie York woke up to the smell of burning books. He didn't know it was his last day of high school. He did know the smoke coming through his rusty window screen was book smoke.
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Bones consolidate with age. The fleshy/
bits of body follow by wrinkling and/
spreading outward, appearing to expand.
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contacts, false eyelashes, strappy open-toed sandals
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I had the distinct feeling she was telepathic. As that thought crossed my mind, she smiled broadly and returned my quizzical stare. It caught me off guard, wasn't what I expected.
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I was seeking punishment so I put my lips around a bright green persimmon and bit down, the bitterness of its flesh overcame me...
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When Madeline became beset with a malady diagnosed as Harlequin's Syndrome she had to learn to overlook the muffled, but audible, guffaws about her excessive perspiration and slightly stooped posture on stage. She was a trooper and said she knew they came from those who…
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Miguel's mom told everyone if you pressed your ear against the knot, Jesus would tell you special secrets.
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I like how you completely disappeared inside a undetermined and yet planned point of pretty view, like a rabbit with a chained pocket watch, like a stunned, frozen bird with a still burning bullet in its tinyfeathered brain. You could say that one…
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I wear a white dress.
I vomit on hers.
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with images overflowing with delicate thought scenes with nightmarish wet dreams
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you may meet the man of your dreams.
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My mother should have been a minister or a peace officer. Instead, she was a homemaker who ran the home like an agency. There were certain hard and fast rules.
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Yes, he'll be quiet. Very quiet. He rocks himself, the ark, suddenly imagining water underneath him, over head, all around. Water, water, water—
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I always have a serious expression on my face, am usually in a white coat and probably look completely unapproachable but there I am, and pasted in my scrapbook: Local Doctor Saves Another Life.
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What’s it like, sex? I ask her.
You see that picture? she asks, nodding to the large canvas covered with a film of dust propped up against her bedroom wall. That picture’s the only thing she never sold. She hocked it a few times but always got the
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Nothing good comes from being lowered into a well to take a photograph, boy
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I heard the worm
was interested
in the fat robin’s song.
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in her monestary mission, with her rosary and candles, time holds me here
my feet got the travelin' blues but my hands tie old women's bones to my hair
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It's time, more than anything
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Your girlfriend with the Dresden blue eyes with the sleek belly & gorgeous scars from ripping off Avenue A dealers has you on a leash of short-term amnesia. You can't recall the last time you got off from being trigger-happy inside her & you formed a…
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Across the vacant vanished . . .
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The stars align against us. Lines of force/
collaborate to push us off the edge/
into the dark abyss we’ve joked about.
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I'm afraid to find out what my spirit animal is
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I still believe in the very slim chanceI might say something luckyenough to reach your truest insides, your at homespirit, that you will hearand understand ascare on my part, evenif you can never quiteidentify me asits secret sender, that warm…
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