A Magazine of Many Arts

Josh Pearce

The so-called "Sapiens sapiens"
lived in a system of cave dwellings
called "Department Stores"
set in strip malls pop-
ulated by the ubiq store whores


who snapped their bubble come
as they engaged in open market,
bartered for pigskin leather,
chewing their cud gum,


buying the flayed skins
of their latest kills
:they dance now:
clip clop clip clop
jiggity jog


and rubbing the fatty perfume
glands of intelligent mammals
all over themselves
to mask the sweat
of their own arousal
:now they dance again:
clip clop clop clip
jiggity jig


supreme desire for glittering
necklaces of glass
and bone, worthless things
to show sexual prowess
and mental subservience


all their food is candy,
liquid, and ingested
in two-liter doses injected
to the bladder directly


and sapiens' impressive discovery
in geometry
that increased surface area
is perceived significant
only by the ignorant
Q.E.D. "big screens equal little minds."


The last Irrational War
was fought only with dropped
atom malls—what they called
"City Killers"—into the suburbia
by general execs in bombproof
coke bottle terraria


(The ghost says, "Wipe out our termite-
mound boroughs with cleansing waves,
so proud we were of our fungus tea gardens
and of our aphid slaves.")

Paige Smith

1 
when it rains
    it pours
when it rains
    we hide
    inside
water unwinds
    our space-time
water drips 
    down the bark
and buildings
    streams
from the gutter
    forms puddles
on the sidewalk, in parking lots
on country paths, in backyards
we lock the doors, keep the kids in
pray for the sun 

2
hands appear
    from those puddles
heave themselves
    from the rim of those
little innocent lakes
    onto sturdy land
up climb those heavy
    beasts
from elsewhere
    smelling of
ancient agony
    dripping in decay
heavy-footed, 
    slither-hairy
their insatiable weapons
    scraping our streets
the places we reserve
    for the sick
the places in front of 
    our mailboxes
the places where
    children draw in chalk
in these stolen drenched days
they walk amongst us, sniffing for meat
shaking off their radiation
in the showers of this world

3
and from the puddles
    we glance
their netherworld
    green-glowing
    alien aurora borealis
vomit-colored sky
    over stricken slums
where surely
    some apocalypse 
has already occurred
    surely their rains
descend in acid-flavor
    and they see
in their streets
the greenery, the lushness, 
mysterious portals where we
fat-covered folk, so juicy, live
they decide
to step through.

4
sometimes they seize
someone 
    a prisoner
    a dinner
shoving them
    into gutterless space
someone
    makes no splash
    they tumble down
    into the horrored space
    across what we know as space

5
we were blessed
    by drought
for a long time
    until
invariable and threatening
    the clouds
rolled in
faster than the future
    and opened 
themselves up
    like jaws
eager to feed
    the dry earth
eager to feed
    us to the beasts

6
in the vast
    cracked 
asphalt sea
    the grocery store
parking lot
    my wife
had no chance
    snatched before
she could reach
    the handle of the door
pulled down
    by the non-faces
and digitless hands
   from the nightmare planet
the hands of hell.

7
the rain
now down
to a drizzle,
the worst 
passed,
the formless 
aliens
retreating 
to their disturbing corner
of the universe
perhaps
our brutal future
perhaps
our savage past
I walk
down my secure 
street
the neighbors
dare not look
through their windows
I bring myself
to the park
so dug-up
by dogs,
find a me-size hole
fearful puddle
I peer into
that improbable 
mirror
dust-stormed
hazardous 
wasteland
their world
might have been
like ours, once
might have been
friendly, green.

Some of them
might be merciful
still.

Only one way
to know.
I step into 
the rain
water which is not wet
I step into 
the doorway
and disappear
from this earth.

Colleen Anderson

She organizes, mindlessly
scurrying back and forth
bringing in groceries, creating lunches
filing, ensuring all things ordered
sometimes it seems she’s rolling shit uphill
when no one watches she stretches
an extra set of legs, pretends to dance
yet worries discovery means more work
 
She clicks her teeth
a hard rasp, mandibles to cut
her frustration, dirty clothes on beds
soiled dishes on counters, ties
to obligations, her self unattended
the reasons he can’t paint, or clean or love
she may as well be a bug, a beetle
for all she gets underfoot
 
She is good, so very good
staying in line, following the rules
they don’t notice her eyes watching
everything, the many facets
as she sits so very very still, pinned
as if under glass, inspecting every grain
the small secrets under the bed
tucked in a pocket, hidden in an external account
 
She has her own secret
wedged beneath her strong chitin shell
the beautiful clothes her city camouflage
feelings shielded from a careless brushoff
how she’s kept her hopes, desires to change
release erotic dreams burrowed away
and most of all her wish to be alive
not just a jewelled makech on a chain
 
Some day soon she will spread protective elytra
drop the guise that she cares
reveal her inner self, the vestigial heart
stretch out her wings, fly high
into the woods, a city, another home
where she will change, be seen
for what she is, no longer hide her strength
and what she will become 

Robert Borski

Sorry, Mr. Bradbury, there are no lemonade
stands or white picket fences here; nor 
will you find sterile encampments or fields
of shitatoes, Messieurs Musk and Damon.
Rather, this is the other red planet, the one
that exists on the underside of the Arean dream —
reality TV Mars.

Here there are neither pristine lakes, 
nor carefully-manicured ski runs at Olympus Mons, 
but used condoms in the canals of Schiaparelli,
and the broken warriors that smile back 
to you from skid row in downtown Helium
(at least the ones who made it back
from the Battle for Grover’s Mill) have
the meth-head dentition of that other Burroughs.
(Bill, not E.R.)

Meanwhile, even as trailer trash princesses
proclaim their right to choose (“You can’t 
have an omelette without breaking eggs”),
the royal family of John and Deja Carter-Thoris
attempts to suppress photos of their piss-drunk 
son passed out in a smashed rocket-sled, 
and are still clinging to the diversionary tactic 
innundating the airwaves about how planetary 
hero and pride of the Space Corps, 
Commander Marvin Martian, is about to fake-
land on Phobos with his robot dog.