Pipe Bomb Magazine

multiplication tables balanced on my nose, melting timed tests—a grid of 10×10 a closet
shave, the best, a man can get shaved ice—whatever will turn my tongue blue law of
parsimony—parsnips—shave the radish, pratfalling pet leopards, ocellated turkey-trot eyes
watching from behind, shaking tail feathers, the chronic smelly goose of web-footed simpleton
craving innuendo—the clustered column leaned away, gun-fi ghting rocker bent—fast-talking
mohawked plumes of smoke galumph away into sunset tequila with a convoy of penny
dreadful pinchbeck gizmos & jazz rifts shot on location under an assumed name

A Good Easter

Monday traditional whipping a handcrafted joke festooned with an ancient little girl presenting
the boys with eggs, that special Easter bun, Big Nights—Prague Post said ribbons and garland
started to appear, tourists were used to beat Czech women in a whipping reenactment it
doesn’t hurt and the men don’t hit too hard Her next breath doused with water, alcohol a tiny
pomlazka sticking out—simply one more Easter ornament, decorating eggs, whipping women,
fertility sweets—only time they can hit women and it’s not against the law—village life, a slap, a
tickle, a bucket of water the fi rst glass to the left leg and the second glass to the right leg—they
were using electric cables—just a gentle tap—even a wooden spoon whip/beat/spank the
color of love—painting rods, whipping eggs even just white, give at least a white one whip the
livestock, good harvest, the housewife rewards him well, pagan cold shower, grab girl, legs,
thighs whip with pussywillow—the hen will bring you something different and plum brandy

My Mitten

My mittens’ eye shadows are nothing like the sundial
Coriander is far more red than her liquors’ red
If soap be white why then her breeches are dun
If half and half be wisteria, black wisterias grow on her headstone
I have seen rotisseries damsel red and white
But no such rotisseries see I in her chemicals
And in some periodic tables is there more delight
Than in the breeding that from my mitten reeks
I love to hear her speak yet well I know
That musk ox hath a far more pleasing soup
I grant I never saw a goldenrod go
My mitten when she walks treads on the grouper
And yet by heavy metal I think my lox as rare
As any she belied with false compatriot