Prospect Park
by Elina Vaysbeyn

modern day metropolis

marble steps

submerged in deep sweaty

sunshine

couch it in sustainable

development

Excuse me, I am

trying to sustain myself,

whose couch will it be

tonight?

my place or yours?

“Duckweed” covered pond

and green ornamental

lightposts

New York City hip

Intelligentsia

“couched” in new york city

projects,

sustain that,

“Hey excuse me! You gon’

leave that boat there?”

Dreads swingin shorts

White t-shirt laugh out loud

brooklyn girl aaaalll the time;

designer sunglasses, life vest tremblin’

big tote bag holds my life,

paisley dress wearin’ nature girl

wannabe on the weekends;

“Ok, I’ll get ya some help girl (you need it)”

Pastry shop open,

Beautiful Women with

Strollers,

Big beautiful Mamas

With big Bellies,

arm in arm, leaning

on husbands, boyfriends,

yuppy homosexual

best friends,

where do you think you are?

This is Brooklyn honey,

It doesn’t get more earth lovin’

Tribal beat bangin’

Wine in the park drinkin’

Than this,

This ain’t no swan lake,

But the swans sure are beautiful.

Make yourself at Home.

Stand at Front
by Isaac Johnson

he lost a lot

giving back

how to

expound the

never seen

suck cock

with Socrates

okay

no I haven’t

but you

could swear

the lit up

fuse tint

on organ grinders

odor off its

own scent

you could handle

vines tape

duct to sheep

for control

or

perambulating

fixtures a

cynic in

opposite sex

clothes

..

pleasure gauge

emphatic

how willing

you are

to hotter up

my eyeball

Eve says fuck you
by Marina Blitshteyn

slip toad gurgled out a snake

soft. spoken. hurled out a

break branch, jumbled

scum pond suck-ups hacking out a

beat rant. im a writer im a writer I swear

im a motherfucking writer lizard

im a lizard I can do anything

to you woman

slop sog limp worm

licking out a tooth wound from the

last ditch, bruised blue balls

blue black sir

im a writer im a writer

im a

motherfucking

writer

just wanted to be a

woman

I can do

anything

Culture
by Elina Vaysbeyn

How can I return?

I claim my

Connection to my roots

I am from there

I am from here

I am from..

Sometimes it’s hard to

Equate myself with those

Who have lost all life,

Whose eyelids keep on

Drooping,

For that race is almost dead

And I don’t want to be

Alone, the bearer of a heavy

Burden,

But my home, my roots,

They keep calling me,

Will you ever

And my flight will

Soon be over,

I will return to poverty,

Nauseating depression,

Grown on the fruitless labors

Of my precedents,

Rotten potatoes, oozing out my

soul.