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the evening air that century was thick
sedative

news from its middle ages had arrived again so now the embassy squeals
an unoiled castle

the cautious instructions from the freshly homeless babies read
afterbirth=packaging

—   From “Owl Contemplating a Frisbee,” a poem by Rich Ives, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

Apropos of Robin

"Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, ‘Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.’ Man bursts into tears. Says ‘But Doctor… I am Pagliacci.’ Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains."

~Alan Moore, Watchmen

“A twee niceness is snark’s mirror image, more pleasant, but as a guiding principle, almost as vacant. Niceness is an affect, a surface level tendency. A lot of the gamblers on Wall Street who wrecked a generation’s economy are really nice bros. Some of the soldiers shelling schools in Gaza are probably teddy bears around their families. The twee boys running our college newspapers might be really polite as they discount women’s opinions. Niceness doesn’t necessarily speak to any deeper commitment to justice. In fact, it can be used to gloss over it.”

—   Travis Mushett looks at the limits of twee/indie culture, only at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“Faith, privacy—river
of belief that one is owed
an internal life, a rich
vista of idiosyncrasies,
like looking at windows
and wondering who’s in there
having sex? I don’t want
to set you up for a racial
encounter, but NDNs
are reluctant to tell
their stories to strangers.
There is no such thing
as ‘Indian,’ but now
there’s no turning back.”

—   An excerpt from Tommy Pico’s long poem “IRL,” up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.
"Neither man screams. The only sound is the sound of a body breaking. These two have been playing this game for centuries."
Kate Brittain only needs 371 words to creep you the hell out. Check out her story “Lament,” only at Blunderbuss Magazine.
*Art by Yvonne Martinez.

“Now it is afternoon dear
god another bird dead head
in a snow pile dull claws
in the air it would have said
if it could talk what the fuck….”

—   Two poems from Morgan Parker, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.
"Love on The Bachelor, though arrived at through a set of unreal circumstances, is real—just like falling in love on vacation is real, like falling in love over a semester abroad is real—if only for the duration of the show itself.”
Sam Eichner on real love, reality TV, and the hyperreal transgressions of Juan Pablo, now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“Their apartment was post-war, tell-me-about-your-mother-while-you-finish-that-cigarette, psychoanalyst chic.”

—   Ramona is subpoenaed to dinner at her boss’ house in this new flash fiction from Emma Harper, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“What might Job have thought of the many doctors who,
when commanded by Franco’s men, took hundreds
of newborn babies from their mothers as they trembled
on the delivery table.”

—   Three poems from Joanne Diaz, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“Every word I say contributes to the lie of art, Young said.”

—   Joe Miller on minimalist legend La Monte Young, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.