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ISSUE:  Fall 2018


Man made the lake to catch the water.

It’s how man gets the gold out of the mountain. 

It’s easy to forget water is a weapon that controls riot. 

Man thinks, my mother put petals in her bath. 

Peach blossom. 

Our president is rich enough to pay for piss. 

You can find traces of gold in the dead alchemists’ hair. 

They loved to drink it. 

Reservoir, lake, ditch, and flume—mine the water and feed it into the cannon. 

Nectar-ine: of or like nectar, man recalls. 

The bees know the only way over death is through the flower.

The gold river kills the fruit, rips the whole orchard up. 

The president is so American when you shake, your hand recoils like you’re catching a baseball. 

“Impeach,” man says aloud, “did you know, is poetic?” 

Ped: to snare the foot, as in the pattern of expectation and the play against it. 

Rhythm is a relationship: what man expects to hear and what man hears. 

Batter my heart. 

Blast the mountain. 

There are no trees in hell, but the air is heavy with sweat, all the parts you could grab a man by just by saying, “Happy Birthday, Mister-hand-on-the-Bible; Swear.”



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