55 south

mike swanberg

You find yourself in love
The way travelers must find themselves
In Duluth, or on 55 south headed away
From the airport.

You tell yourself,
somewhere I made the wrong decision.
And now how many miles
Until I can turn this thing around

so you do what everyone does.

you sing along to the song playing,
You drum your hands on the steering wheel
And you wait for the next sign to say
What you probably should have known
all along

this was going to be a poem but turned into a letter

by Bachelorette

To A Former Flame.

I hope you are doing well.
I'm sure you are doing well now that you
have cut me out of your life!!!!!!!
Hopefully it's everything you ever dreamed of
and I'm sure it's nice not to worry about
remembering to do certain things, like,
"fuck, I haven't called her in over a week"
...
oh wait, that's right, you never worried about those
things in the first place.

Of course.

Hopefully your newly-embraced Christianity is
treating you well. It was very considerate
that you cut off physical activity at me sucking
your dick, because sex is sacred, and you don't really
know if you're in love - who can be sure these days,
right??? I'm sure your god will be impressed by
the sexual constraint you practiced as my head was
between your legs. And yes, you do have a small
dick. You already knew it, I was too kind to
confirm it.

With that said, I hope that your new sexual
encounters are just as fulfuilling (if not more!) as
those which were experienced with yours truly. I'm sure
there are plenty of bimbos out there willing to
satisfy you after 2, 3, maybe 8 beers. You may
have a miniscule johnson but what you lack in the
sack you make up for in... well, you really don't
manage to make up for it in any respect. Let's
not kid ourselves.

Anyways! Good luck in the rest of your life. Perhaps
you really will find the woman who's man
enough to make up for all your shortcomings
and pussy antics. Enjoy the rest of the
semester, not that I need to tell you to,
because I'm sure you are.








And please mail my fucking shirt back.

Kind regards,
Your Former Flame

Next Stop--Bad Poetryville

by bru

I wish I was brave enough
To throw everything away
But I've too many buttons
Holding everything together
(sewing them back on when they've fallen off)

Running away to Sacramento has been done
(so many times before)
The only appealing aspect--
it's not here.
(i would write you)

Running to Sacramento has been accomplished
(too many times before)
I'll go somewhere new
And wait for the next time
That I think I'm brave enough
To throw everything away

The Conductor

by Nik

A cold September hand reached through the window and scratched his toes. He slid his feet across his bed and let his callused heels grind against each other making a sound like the crumpling of the New York Times. His eyes opened but it was still dark in the room. The clock read 6:03 AM with its dawn red numerals.

Standing at the window sill, he raised one arm up. Holding up a clenched fist horizontally, he let hit fingers unroll. Slowly he raised his open palm, the sun outside rising with it. His other hand shimmered its fingers down the boulevard while the sun’s rays dragged along with it illuminating the road.

He walked until his feet snugged into his bedside slippers. He continued circling the room as he slipped off his shirt, and then stepped out of his pajama pants. He walked to his dresser and picked up the next pair of clean underwear and continued walking and he slid them on, followed by the rest of his attire which consisted of a pressed black suit necessary for his vocation. His 2/2 march continued with his socks and shoes as they helped him out the front door.

The conductor rested at the red stoplight and pushed the cars along in front of him. One of his hands moving left to right, the other moving right to left, helping the cars through the intersection. Then he pointed at the peeling old lady on her morning walk and guided her across the side walk.

The stoplight clicked green and the march began again.

He felt the early September sun heat his face as he continued his march through the edge of Brooklyn. He found the entry stairway to the Brooklyn Bridge and machined his way up the steps.

Halfway now, across the bridge, he stood and gazed at the New York skyline. The two tall twin towers stood like white dominoes. Ready to knock one another given a slight prod.
He stopped for a minute, looked down at his watch.

8:45 AM.

His eyes darted to the left, a Boeing jet plane rocketed through the blue sky. He pointed to it with one finger and guided it through the city and into one of the twin world trade centers. He continued to stand there and guide the smoke out into the sky.

9:03 AM.

Another international flight approached. He points two fingers at the plane, and guides it into the other tower. The building released a brilliant explosion.

10:05 AM.

The conductor clenches his fist as the south tower falls in on itself like a stack of imploding dominoes.

10:28 AM.

He closes his other fist, guiding the other tower down, and letting its smoke and dust melt over the Manhattan skyline.

The conductor opens his eyes to a standing ovation.