Spring 2012

Edited by Blas Falconer | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



​Poetry

​Whittling My Legs into a Rocking Chair

​Alex Lemon


If some higher power knows
What’s best for us, then bring

On a monsoon of dung
Beetles, a mouthful of rats.

The truth is being alive boils
You down into a toxic mush

That our descendents will
Jaggedly smear across their lips. 

Life is all about wearing sun-
Dresses that glow & Dolly

Parton wigs. Most days, my heart
Is fear-stippled & I wait for the rising

Sun, slumped in the bathtub fully
Clothed—work boots & magic

Underwear—softly clapping my hands.
When I start to feel the voltage humming

My chest into a wasp nest, I jump up,
Run through the house, clapping

Harder & pounding on doors
Because, one of these days, instead

Of just making it rain, my applause
Will slough my skin off like a moth-

Eaten bathrobe. Like a snow-
Mobile suit of inferno & love.

Because always, a tremulous thunder
Is upon us. Lightning flashes through

The knobby trees, turning
The picture window into a lung

X-ray. If I could swim through
The glass & be the rainstorm—

I might see beyond things
As they appear on TV. Music

Boxes in the drooling oaks.
Needleworked faces in passing

Cars. Each day my reflection
In the downpouring glass says

The same goddamn thing—
Today is the best day of your

Life—You’ll never be prettier
Than this—It’s all downhill

From here. Through my ghost
In the window, I watch honey-

Comb-shaped puddles pave
The street with shards of the sky. 




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