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Bourge-wise Cat

ALT GREEN SWIMMING POOL

ALT GREEN SWIMMING POOL WATER AND A LARGE STRUGGLING LAWN [a party postscript] by Wilna Panagos Wait until you find a man with a round head so dark and smooth that it is absolution blue where the light strikes it. This is the man you want to talk to about the two rivers of entropy, archipelic thinking and geophagy. We are the ant gods, he says, to them we are all the same, all one immensity. We bring death or food and pray as they may, it makes no difference. We are too large for them to see entirely – scale is everything. To them we are inexplicable. He says: Light operates on all hierarchies of reality and when you sleep at night, all your sorrows are obliterated. Every time you wake, you have to remember everything anew. Weep as a warning to others. And he grins at his betel box with his red teeth and receives five hundred strikes of the slipper to the head. While all this is going on, Gatsby leans back and closes his eyes and says into the lethargic air, air as moist and warm as breath, air the colour of Vegas gold and old paper: The question of where is not answered on a map. Earth eating overturns the whole enchilada and every grain of dust has a marvelous soul. If you close your eyes you are alone in the world... I'm building a spite house in Ottoman Cyprus, says Aloysius-Eloise, in a landscape full of desire lines and a flea in the ear, full of hopscotch hoodoos in the dead dust. Ritualized bathing is against the law and the objectifying gaze of the colonizer a pestilence, but the trail has gone cold, it was so very long ago. The heard is hunted. Creolization as a Poetics of Culture. The ghost pretending to be a crop circle says nothing. Win a sheep! blurts Legba the translator and: I like Nascar! and he sighs. Kiradmand mutters: Victory, however, came too late, an actual infinity is impossible, one day the tiger in the woods will carry us off, and her worn deckchair creaks as she puts her hands behind her neck. I'm living on a map, thinks the ghost. Ispahan is half the world, it thinks, Ispahan, a city in Persia, macarons with raspberries in the middle or a strain of pink rose named after the city. There's a storm coming, it whispers. Gatsby lifts his glass without opening his eyes and shakes the mostly molten ice cubes and watery whiskey dregs. Can I have another one? he says to the man rinsing his raw round head in the lukewarm swimming pool. words they could have used but didn't: torpid bazar khaki ad hoc tacit bistre inertia And no one asked them, the ones with their brows wreathed in wilted poplar leaves: How many teeth have you in your mouth? or: Where are you going? What do you want? We have a winner! shouted Legba in his sleep. Jam and pepper he mumbles. The prince, according to custom, disappears. Author bio: Wilna Panagos' work has appeared in Otoliths, Museum Life, Prick of the Spindle, The Undertow Review, Ditch Poetry Altpoetics, Hobo Camp Review, and others. Long ago she wrote and illustrated a few children's books and more recently something which may be described as a nouvelle vague transmogrification of The Divine Comedy, a postmodern experimental polyphonic florilegious pastiche, a chaotic and irreverent remix of Dante’s afterlife with the gravity hidden beneath. It is still unpublished.

Pleasantly Saying Terrible Things By Alyssa Trivett I apologize for not picking you up from the airport. Flying squirrels raided my house, toilet-papering the trees, pissing on the garage door. I apologize for not picking you up from the airport. My hand was stuck in the Pringles can unable to dab soap around, my Mrs. Robocop driving hand. I am not the Chuck E. Cheese animatronic puppet chucking tokens in soul-less machines, for lifeless tickets redeemed for a deflated mini glow-in-the-dark basketball. At three thousand, it can be yours! I am the coffee cup. Quiet enough not to be noticed misunderstanding pointless math problems; Springfield train, chugging along fifty-three miles-per-hour, meeting in Dallas ten hours later, Star Wars Stormtrooper Snuggies being delivered. Due to popular demand. I am the kind friend rapid-fire texting memes to make you laugh. I am the oddly-named subdivision; Feather Creek, chicken-poxed retention pond. Mildew Villages. Snug Harbor; for the win. Not. I apologize for not picking you up from the airport. My left shoe and right shoe were on the wrong foot. Forgive me anyways. Pleasantly saying terrible things. Author bio: Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, Peeking Cat, VerseWrights, In Between Hangovers, Tuck Magazine, Communicators League, and Duane's PoeTree site.

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