Volume I Number IV

June 2002

cover photo by Al Nowatzki

memories are made of this
Leau DuSang

memories are made of shit
flush ’em down

same with love:
fuck it

too much sitting around, thinking
drives a man mad

I know a guy
who has been
fifty different men
in the past twenty-five years

to want to go back to one of them
is to be dead

don’t be dead
don’t love
don’t remember

take a drink

a solo trumpet waiting for a friend
Eugene Zimmerman

these are the things I am doing right now.
the sounds in the other room are the
computer printer and possibly the
telephone. electronic life in
the other room.
the incense sticks are for the musty smell
left over from last night’s bottle of wine
in my guts
and the solo trumpet flares out loud and
clear across the miniature radio
on top of a stack of folded

lake is but a drink
Leau DuSang

getting drunk but
building up to nothing

I guess, though, that is what I
drank it for

drink yourself to sleep
gently, gently, merrily, gently
life is but
a dream

lights on
lights off
day, night

run yourself up the hill
fall down for some water
lake is but a drink

get me drunk
get me sleeping
get me tumbling

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