November 4, 2013 | Fiction
What came next was one long show: broken strings, smashed microphones, guitar solos without boundaries or purpose, house parties with bands in the kitchen and bands in the attic, missing kick drum pedals, stolen snares, songs we couldn’t figure out how to end and we drifted inside them, lost within our own imaginations.
October 31, 2013 | Poetry
Kimberly Ann Southwick
like when I stand with the kitchen scissors in the citygarden, / thunderloving a green skinned fruit. // He hears my kisses, a wall grabber, the neighbors’ dog / left out in the cold. here’s to his / soft wet nose and a part of me / that bleeds dogblood, impure.
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