ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Two Poems
by Amish Trivedi


Morning System

Grasping at
every hair in her
neck, I

tasted something bitter
& streck
the gaping moles
with my ball-

ping. Just you
wait she said as she

mouthed her
love with anemia’s
intention to

details
disguised as

mousy men. No
longer could I

gesture her for
coffee, or pressure her

lawn moaning: I’d have to
fake a beginning all

for my self.

Passencore

If this skin
pulses, the
shards become a renewed
faith, a signal. To this end,
the dynamic lease is filtered by light through
punctured paper plates, a
refuge for an acting sun.

This checkered skin, a passing
river demolition and in its
blessed rage lies a tangled
slaughter of twisted letters,
readdressed and filled
with empty dollar bills
in the hope that a singing
canary will return, smiling.

This. Unbleached, and cannibalistic.
This tyrant, Teflon tumble-
dried. Avian water it is.
Cascading still-life un-checkered
America. Balding America; Comb-
over, America. Power c(h)ord
industrialists. Buck passing fuck.
('merica).

If this cabal (Kabul?)
is imbedded, it is
fusion, digression.

This arraignment.

Amish Trivedi lives below the radar with his wife in Iowa City . His poems can be found in the Backwards City Review, Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks, Can We Have Our Ball Back?, Kulture Vulture,and soon in Dead Horse Review. The Trivedi Chronicles are of historical value.