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by Michael Constantine McConnell I’m looking for a word to stretch my ribs when I lie on my back connecting stars for vision. I seek a descriptive word that doesn’t yet know the taste of water, has yet to feel wind push invisible arms through trees or see a nighttime sea mohawked in moonlight. I […]

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Non Sense

by Michael Constantine McConnell I remember the beginning, when winged night led his mistress to Gomorrah, where they would prosper and raise a family of bratty little sinners. We once discussed such things over breakfasts, and flowers stemmed from our words, hung in the air like kites. Then the wind lost

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by Michael Constantine McConnell Got tore up again, my face a bloated meatloaf, a roadmap of burst blood vessels and sadness. I drink whiskey to baptize the maggots I feel squirming in my belly, unraveling the core, building highways and fleeing to the suburbs. I blow kisses into the wind, hope one will carry

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Untitled Palindrome

by Michael Constantine McConnell Dog-bard, a wall arose. Soon, a red, nude man-era stole Gail of deli, and, lo, my tit-net carts bade, trap millions’ parts, but a snag rose many fits, and I’d reward no cabs. Eve[n] Eve’s bacon drawer did nastify names, organs, a tub, straps. No ill-imparted, abstract-entity mold nailed foliage. Lots […]

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by Michael Constantine McConnell Mother, I’m falling apart and don’t know what to do. I’ve turned a good woman’s love into ink. You taught me how to read, and, now, I am a man of words. Mother, shrink me into a seed; rest me on a delicate pillow. I need whisky

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Six Disturbing Palindromes

by Michael Constantine McConnell No, Keep Rod on, a brute lisps. I’ll rig a Tulsa siren, rut an item. Albinos, Mister [B]ret Simson, I blame. Tina Turner is a slut, a girl lisps. I let urban odor peek on.  35 words/123 letters Relapse, he pondered. No plasma, yet a straw, Latin egret-sewer [g]rew Ester genital […]

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