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 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
Jordan Rowan
Sell me Pocahontas
She is only seventeen
Paid in full for a painted skull
And a million apple trees

Guide me, native spirit
Teach me how to speak
To tell them why they have to die
And why they're so weak

Pocahontas, come with me  
Take my hand and you'll see

The land of fallen glory
Of courageous family men
Fought for truth and killed the youth
After we called them friends

Pocahontas, come with me  
Take my hand and you'll see

Listen to my promise
This is my desire
Just sign the line and close your eyes
As I set your home on fire
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
Let's just table this discussion
so I can table you.
I feel like there should be that sultry winking face emoji here.
pool chairs.
eating emeralds
smoking insects
and becoming the locust
of the world.

party looking like bloodletting
indoor wallpaper rosyblurry violent cough
and vision up like a promised land
windy alcove and energized balcony chats

my fear of heights, lime nicotine
you'll save my anxiety taking me home
naked to the core underwear and bra
talking quietly as you drunk drive
lonely dragonfly intersection intertwined
fingers and again - those kingly emeralds
of course, written after saint pat's
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
Alice Baker
Sometimes the trees sing our song
Whispering through the budding branches
They mourn our loss
And then they bloom.
blah blah blah words
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
she wakes me with a kiss on the cheek
puts a hot drink by my side
then gently ruffles my hair
before exiting the room
a towel wrapped firmly around her
what fine form she has
what buxom beauty
and such kindness beneath
I hear the hiss of hot water
as she steps in the shower
and imagine her moist *******
hardening as she soaps up her *******
soaking herself in the steady downpour
a warm sensation filling her insides
like a hot flood in a rain forest
and outside the birds are singing
and inside so am I
because in that moment
she gave me enough strength
to face another day
and I know
that with her
I am home
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
the Sandman
rewind; replay
    we're standing in a canopy of sunlight
    and laughing, constantly.
    our faces are tired of moving up
    but our eyes are used to crinkling;
    they fold, and shut, and open like buds
    with the spread and shrink of our grins, in
    and out, with our lungs.
Pauze. Zoom.
    Your nails are chipping now, but
    You're really a halfwit,
    So that doesn't deter you the least bit
    From scratch-scratch-scratching at their shook ends:
    They fall apart as we fall out.
    We're spinning, we're dizzyingly quick,
    Hurtling at the speed of 28,800 kilometres an hour; we're brisk
    At best. (Inconceivable at worst.)
    And I can feel, already, you slipping away.
    You're outside of my grasp; you're far out.
rewind; replay.
    We're ripping at the seams;
    Our faces are like bad make-up
    That doesn't move with our smiles;
    Our eyes stay impassive,
    Uninterested at best. Incensed at worst.
    The crinkles in their corners are crusted
    And new folds form on the frowns of our foreheads.
    We're smothering each other in pillow talk and blankets.
Flash-forward, play.
    We're bathed in rain, we're in a
    Canyon, in a chasm.
    We don't know salt from wound
    Or snake from bite. We
    Bring out the worst in our best selves.
    We're drowning in suitcases and bedding.
    We let it fill our lungs and we
    Don't look back.
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
When death comes looking
for you, a man doesn't hide
away in the night or wait
for the moon to throw knives
at the heart of his shadow.

He dresses in a clean white shirt,
a dark suit and black shoes
and walks the long walk
to the far bar for a short shot
of Absolut(e) truth with a toast
chased by a stale *******
that tastes like the holy ghost.

He shuts his eyes and speaks
of younger days, wayward ways,
and a daughter who sleeps
the deep sleep of blue water.

Then a man wades into the sea
to see what death has to say
to a man who never gave
a good ******* anyway.
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
Ben Fernekees
Drink all day
Maybe then the bad taste of life will go away
Maybe you'll see that no one stays
Maybe it was all worthless at the end of the day
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
Sam Temple
incorruptible turnip
exposed to the glow
of an unforgiving sun-star
mildly baking and exchanging
soft whites and purples
for damaged yellow
tan shifting to brown
ants and flies hurriedly scurry
attempting to de-flesh
and undress
this mess left by migrant workers
rolling free from the bouncing truck
the still moist turnip
looked east
longing to be blended into
a fine cream soup—
**** potatoes
 Mar 2016 Zak Krug
Bows N' Arrows
Traces of constellations written in freckles on your back
A laugh like Judaism and a touch like loneliness
Can only explain it in pictures of black and white images
like a chemical combustion in frail snapshots
tethered hands all  weathered and rough
Misspoken masterpieces communicated through touch
So hard to contain this sensation
I can't explain through anything tangible
A cloud that changes shape upon inspection
Spectacles, our honors
gleaming like a trophy that's hidden in a box
left alone to rust
Miscellaneous hands grasped to chasms
moving so quick and fast
There's no lines attached to those burdens or
bodies crisp gloves cover up
Stretched or crunched
hovering like a light
above storms in the town square
Overblown posters with checkers
faded colors in Spring
advertising bands
that I won't listen too, fabric I'll never feel
noises I'll never have to speak over
or turn down on radios
Artichoke hearts stabbed by the fork
held by an animator choking on the root
This is the inheritance of sound
of presences on stages or garages
These oiled gemstones
blurred behind faceless statuesque
pieces of cold stone
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