by Joseph Szalinski
Wing nights attract like tree stars; barstools and booths become bonafide Bedrocks; boasts of the best are shared like rumors and maps to Skull Island. Roars of napkin-muffled belches and a show-and-tell of aromas greet festive company ready to make flavorful discoveries buried in meat instead of layers of crumbly history. Saucy archaeologists whose only tested faith is in their own ability to devour dozens of drums and flats. Dig-Dugs of dry rubs, rattling off crazy culinary nomenclature as difficult as Latin terminology.
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by M. Christine Benner Dixon
“how many tiny bees/ have gotten that far/ and starved by the journey/ eaten shadow pollen/ never to return/ through her bright horn”
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by “I Medina” Jackson
How do I prepare you for apocalypse?/ How do I prepare you for the inconspicuous, loud, cyclical doom of White/ supremacy’s tentacles”
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By Bryan Conway
paunch extended
shirtless, seated
sippin’ on some beer
yoga-panted
vim and velcro
suddenly appears
by Alexandra Gipson
“I grew up in Plum, a funny name for a funny town/ whose gaudy purple trash cans display the words/
“One Great Big Small Boro”/ with pride, as if this town has something to be proud of.”
by Mike Schneider
Spend! Spend! Spend! Spend!
says the lady in billowing purple
& gold pajama pants & flip-flops,
shuffling east on Carson at 15th …
by Ellen McGrath Smith
“I have leased out my soul to these animals, no strings attached save their promise to keep being foxes, living on the fringe of the mess we’ve made, scoring petty carnage … ”
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