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Editor's Choice
Poem Written Before Jumping Down An Eight Mile Rabbit Hole
by Steven Gulvezan
POEM WRITTEN BEFORE JUMPING DOWN AN EIGHT MILE RABBIT HOLE Drink through the eternal Night Bukowski you big-shot poet Sucking your beer Through a rose-colored Straw You say the beat-up losers Identify with you And keep you famous The men in empty rooms Working factory jobs With hateful wives And deviant children Hopeless in their despair Wake up Bukowski These are not the people Who worship at your shrine The men who have already Been broken Do not read your poetry If anything they hate you For escaping their world It's the young punks Who think you're cool You are The ultimate idealized proto-father Banging young snatch Playing the poetry game And winning Triumphant over the reality Of beastly labor And boring endless decades These children dream That they too Will be able to accomplish What you have done Bukowski Purveyor of fantasies Why didn't you tell them the truth? They grow older Sadder And wiser With every throb Of the arteries In their slowly hardening Hearts
Cafe Kott
by M.P. Powers

It’s best here in the early mornings on an overcast autumn day. Sitting on the plush orange sofa, in the semi-light. Warmed by Turkish tea, smoking rolled cigarettes. There’s only three of us here, and the barmaid clattering dishes in the back. An old French song tiptoes about the room.   It’s best here when outside the weather’s grim. When there’s just a few yellow leaves left trembling on the trees. Sitting in this dim, uncertain light. Sitting under a sign that says Beware of Pickpockets. Smoke curling from my ashtray. Mumbling as I write this.   It’s best here before the crowd comes, when it’s gloomy and cold outside, the windowpanes speckled with raindrops. A jar of sugar and a vase of flowers on every coffee table. And the barmaid who smiles every time I order a tea.