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essays, reviews, poetry, short stories, everyday observations, contemporary art


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Written by admin

November 5, 2012 at 5:20 pm

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Absence of Moon by Angela Janda

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To create you must first destroy. And then there is room
for the creating. There is only so much space

though also space is infinite in another way of thinking.

Today at 7:04pm Mountain Time was the new moon.
Was the moon new or I suppose we could say: absent.
Was the absence of the moon. Mountain Standard Time,

This is what I will destroy first: mountains
of old photographs, notebook albums, my need to be admired.

By the light of no moon I will drink down to nothing
a bottle of tea.

The whole fruit destroyed becomes the cobbler. The perfect eggshell
cracked open– The fabric cut, the trousers, the pleats.
The marriage destroyed–

I don’t know.

I am a little sick of destruction, to be honest,
though heartened to hear of its probable use.

Maybe the other side of the coin–
the infinity of space,
that nothing
is lost, the moon comes around full again–

that nothing is lost.

Then I just wrote the word purple.

Even after my death, the lilacs.

Angela Janda

Written by admin

May 18, 2010 at 12:04 am

Posted in Poetry

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How to Survive by Angela Janda

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Keep your friends close and your silence closer.

Head like a white sheet
or a sailcloth, hung garments
blown sideways in a bluesky wind.

Live in pictures and pictures only.

A bowl of blueberries, a standing pear,

as a symbol for weightlessness.
The anemone
as a symbol for grief.
A swan-drawn chariot as a symbol for:

your secret is your power.

The object of your search is within.

Go and look for it;
leave no notes.

A table
bare where the note should be

but for
an empty dish and the sheen of sun.

Where the fork should be, a spoon.

No one to ask, or to answer.

Angela Janda

Written by admin

May 18, 2010 at 12:01 am

Posted in Poetry

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There was a time

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There is a time
when one may need to ask
for shelter

To please take off
your shoes

To have a king
for a son
to fix a heel
Drink some water

To put the ticket
in a subway machine

To find a cup of stew
a hole in the wall
a room behind the
Fire place or the floor boards

Sometimes we all just need
a place to stay

To spit on your windshield
Fix your rainbow
Sushi, clean your pool

Sometimes someone
Has to die
Because of their name
Because we look like
Someone else

There is fine
for being a productive person
a pound of lard
that must be delivered
a pizza that is just a prank
Anchovies and all

Sometimes we must die
at the foot
of a wall

there is no other way

– Aide Rodriguez Zamudio

Aide Rodriguez Zamudio

Written by admin

April 27, 2010 at 10:08 pm

Partials Form a Spatial Whole

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Begin with sounds, music, voices,

One on top of the other, abundance

of echoes, whispers, noises.

A multiplicity of reverberations

in my ears, head, brain, mind,

followed by visual images

Geometric shapes come alive.

All so real, vivid and intense.

Multiple dimensions, worlds, planes

This back and forth,

confounds my sense of time, of space

feels foreign, yet familiar.

I try to control it, and return to reality

Then it passes seeming like eternity.

-Leticia Cortez, 2010

Written by admin

March 26, 2010 at 2:24 am


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Sleep is an unfenced country,

but the roads to it are closed.

The train was also late, and full of garlic eaters

and children yelling into cell phones,

and the man in the next seat, snoring loudly.

Sleep requires no passport,

but you must be

near dead

to get there.

Animals, on the other hand, sleep when they want to.

In the middle of the day.

On the rug,

in their wings,

on their feet.

Why must we have fences and trains,

and still fail to reach the natural state?

Are we demented?

To take sleeping pills, when God never had any plan about this.

By Alice Van Buren

Written by admin

March 7, 2010 at 4:35 pm

Posted in Poetry

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The year’s last light spilling in before dark. A flood of gold on the floor.

Winter, on its haunches, panting.
This is when we slaughtered meat, tasted the beer and the new wine.

A fortnight of feasting, and then we chased trolls.

Our fore fathers had a ritual for this, but we just swatted at stains

messy little monsters

as they multiplied before our eyes.

How to spot a troll? After two weeks of drink?

“When men make a road, trolls disappear.”

Does this mean, we should build more roads?

By Alice Van Buren

Written by admin

March 7, 2010 at 4:34 pm

Posted in Poetry

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