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From Being Stalingrad to Nothingness
by Brett Stout After she annexed her existenceandthe Crimea confessions as oxymoron’swere writtenin dead languages onblank Post-It Notesleft in empty carriagesas thebroken dams filled withneon ghetto trashcansand urban rodent predators weresprayingdesigner cologne onme and inthe pages ofmonthly corporate familymagazines, celebrate the revolutionwith blood soaked handsand pinwheelsof death and mass genocide yellow ochreprimary redblackandlime greenpaint strokes…
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Old Umbrellas for the New Blood Rain
by Brett Stout The metallic neon bloodladen Americanconcrete andgrass, Ohio is now singed, safety pinnedaccessories and mementosof futurepresentand past enthusiastic wars, black tie dinnersandcheap gas masksmelt protests ofpeaceor annihilationborn soloon gargantuanwaves of a spring unrest andseverelydefaulted apathy, a coagulationofeuphoric andembittered state lotteriesand national drafts, hands to faceandface to facea reduction oftear gas laden emotionsandcentrally stationed…
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Cool Johnny Robs Dock Forty-Two
By John Caulkins North storm blows strong frosty fog, From typhoon onto Bronx blocks. Crowds opt off of snowy lots From posh port to ghost town now. On boggy docks, crooks do jobs. Oblong orbs from Morocco Worthy of crowns or gold cloth. Cool Johnny plots con slowly. “Molly, go stroll, look for folks.” “Otto,…