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Poetry

Untitled #6
by Catherine Linstrom

In long letters, rarely sent,
romantics write to themselves.
A fitting heart’s lament
would be “You didn’t read me.”
A heart mislaid is worse
than broken—
You have mislaid me.

In conditions rarely met
I submit my demands
Ungranted, your ungracious
heart disdains me.
A gift unsent cannot be
returned unopened—
You will not receive me.

Your name is written on me
in long, straight lines.
Deep impressionistic views
of you.
Romance and necromance
at once combined
in nihilistic tatoos.

Minimum Wage
by Julie Sklut

My pen poised like a gun
and I’m blasting them all away
ink splatters as easily as blood
casualties all over the coffeehouse.

Three dead yuppies
clinging to the cappuccino machine
one on the floor clutching
a handful of coffee beans
screaming, “Decaf espresso, decaf!”
until

Look, over there!
One of those goateed fascist
Hollywood types bleeding
into his Actor’s Equity mag
trips over the fallen biscottis
disconnects his agent on the mobile phone
steps into my line of fire
and he’s canceled like
a late-night talk show host

The nuns, of course, are shocked
and tear off their habits
to slip out unnoticed
wandering the boulevard like dazed cattle
mooing Hail Marys softly to each other

The poets, crying into their berets
while hastily scribbling on dirty napkins
stained with split café au lait,
pull turtlenecks up over their faces,
bury themselves under books

and I’m not outta bullets yet. ♦