Still Missing Their Words Issue

Posted in Uncategorized on October 21, 2014 by Scot

Scott Wannberg

Posted in Scott Wannberg on October 21, 2014 by Scot

Mescaline River

The new Andrew Lloyd Webber hit musical
Mescaline River
just spilled out of its swank New York City
theater
and I drank so much of it
now I am considering becoming a dog
and if it works
will you bone me
and rub my belly of doubt?

july 16 2009
oh susanna
johnstown

–archives, Deuce Coupe, July 22, 2009

Todd Moore

Posted in Todd Moore on October 21, 2014 by Scot

found

tina head
down on
the steer
ing wheel
the sawed
off shot
gun on
the seat
beside her
was splat
tered w/
blood a
one dol
lar bill was
taped to
the wind
shield she
had some
of her
brains in
her lap

–archives, Deuce Coupe, August 2009

F.N. Wright

Posted in F.N. Wright on October 21, 2014 by Scot

MY PHONE IS LONESOME TONIGHT

on the bed beside me
waiting for a ring
for me to pick it up
dial a number
any number
lover
ex-lover
a friend
anyone
it doesn’t matter
to my phone
like me it misses
the sound of a human
voice
especially a caring voice
or the sound of one
that once loved me
but no one calls
there is no one I can call
I have no lovers
my exes have forgotten
my number
I have no friends
the loneliness of my phone
hurts me deeply
fills me with guilt
loneliness is a sad thing
I pick up the phone
dial 411.

–archives, Deuce Coupe, June 12, 2010

Joie Cook

Posted in Joie Cook on October 21, 2014 by Scot

We are all that we have

(w/Martin Puryear exhibit in mind)

We are all that we have
Dark shadows billowing past the
Stark architecture of bent wood
The otherness of others
Doesn’t bother us here
In our safe cocoon of One
Where we avert the glances
Of old Asian security guards
Warning us not to touch
This is where we examine the separation
Of nature from natural
Comparing the timber’s abstractions
Surrounded by fallen branches
Nothing may we touch here
But each other.

from the archives of Deuce Coupe 2009

Hugh Fox

Posted in Hugh Fox on October 21, 2014 by Scot

LAST LEAVES

Why does the collection of my dead always come back now,
some places still a glorious blend of yellows and reds, others
just black trunks and empty limbs in the last November rain, just on
the edge of snow?
“Howya doin’, Hughie?”
Bespeckled, swollen-legged, practical black-shoed Gram, or
mon mere, “Will you please pass the sugar,” making
it sound like “Fire!,” mon pere, Mr. Double-Belly,sucking
on a cigarette or (special occasions) cigar, turkey all over
the tables in my brain, and trees going up, wreathes, Bless
me, Father, for I have, God rest you merry gentlemen…wanting
Mary Joan and Shirley and Guiliana and Patricia and Dolores
and Shirley all back,Lynn coming in the midnight door to
spend the night in my high-heaven hallucinogenic dreams,
the Chicago-LA-NYC-Boston-Paris-BC streets
and desire sun-shining, moon-shining over me twenty four
hours a day.

bone digger by pretty words

Posted in pretty words with tags on October 8, 2014 by Scot

whilst big spooning

it was then
she thought to
kiss it

the occipital bone
at the back of
his head

that warm trapezoidal protrusion
right there in the hair
above his soap-smelling sexy
shaven nape

she explained in a whisper
that she loves the
skeletal system

all he did was laugh
because she likes
bones

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