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pamplemousse

writing and literature from Northern Vermont University – Johnson

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Kary Wayson

You make mention

by Kary Wayson in Poetry

of your Asian girlfriend. I too can tell beautiful eyes. I remember your wife, that pale comparison: she gave it all up ev-er-y night. I too make mention, though not in this get-up, fetching chicken at Safeway in a crush of mothers and old people, slowly, that’s a fun age. Like lamps, I wonder? though not as much. Like plants… Read more →

The Day

by Kary Wayson in Poetry

gets slowly started: Hansel’s asshole oatmeal spoon in a bowl down the hall in the kitchen, the intricate etching of many sets of breasts hanging low on the wall beside our bed. When I get up, first for the mirror: my hair is always amazing! Later, without fail — make the bed. Swallow my pills. Try to fix — this?… Read more →

The Construction

by Taylor Shaw in Fiction

Comus Marvidakis is a dead man. He is not dead in the fact that he is a rotting corpse. He is dead in the fact that he is absent. Somewhere outside this barbed-wire enclosing of the colony—across a plain, through a tangled brush, over lake or sea—is a place where he once belonged, but is no longer a part of.… Read more →

Prologue: A Study in Control

by Taylor Shaw in Fiction

The question that plagues all leaders: how do you maintain control? There are those leaders whose solution is compromise. Except that it really cannot be called a compromise – it’s complete submission. Submission in the most reversed sense. These leaders bow and grovel to the whim of millions of masters. They are strung-up on chicken wire and forced to dance… Read more →

Jan Dream

by Mark Halliday in Poetry

In that dream who was it so lanky and tan who parked and waved and excitedly ran? I know who it was I am sure it was Jan who decided at last I could be the right man, she parked her long Chevrolet on the edge of a hill and she waved as if I were the key to her… Read more →

Furred Paws

by Mark Halliday in Essay

You wanted to participate. At least that; and also where possible to contribute. But fatigue grows. Fatigue has darkish furred paws. You think you will not become creaky, your knees squeaky, your back dependent on rows of invisible safety pins. But it comes to be almost that way and then actually kind of that way and then that way. Gradually… Read more →

A Good Day in Middle Age

by April Ossmann in Poetry

For my beloved      ones, a temporary stay of execution. Read more →

Reveille

by April Ossmann in Poetry

Awake, passersby!      Lilies aim flaming bugles— trumpeting July. Read more →

The Mother of Beauty

by April Ossmann in Poetry

    In a window corner, an inspired spider     has spun unwittingly a perfect bowl     for collecting raindrops: miniature crystal balls     for predicting insect or human futures in. Read more →

Guaranteed Ten-Minute Oil Change

by April Ossmann in Poetry

What belongs here is lungs exhausted by waiting cars, oil-dark hands flashing in dim light; concrete floors cold even in summer; grime-stained waiting chairs; air smudged from cigarette smoke and the near, incessant traffic— in our ears the all-day whine persists in echo all night. What doesn’t belong is a grown man’s tears or fainting, even once—twice is reason to… Read more →

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