THREE POEMS by INDIGO PALMER

Hagsploitation

Olivia de (Hag)illand—cold steel bars won’t you gouge out my eyes? Oh, Melly! We’re going to, Melly? Aged like milk. No wonder there’s no roles for—Lady in a Cage, your son is French! But he’s not from France! Maybe me? When I’ve drank too many dirty Shirley Temple was a bad girl she played politics with the big dogs into her old age. And what have you done for your country, Olivia? I have always thought that the most important person involved in any film is the Director. Crawford turned it down. Montgomery turned it down. You what? Hitchcock had flair and class, and both of these ingredients are completely lacking in this drab film! Do you hear that Olivia? It’s 1964, get a grip. Get a nose job for God sakes. Look what it did for Liz Taylor! At least put that paper-bag stocking over your head and pipe down. The orgy will commence in 10, 9, 8, are you watching? Are you listening? The liquor cabinet is full of peach schnapps and I’m filling up a water bottle for the football game. Like you I’m just a spectator, watching sweaty brutes brutalize other sweaty brutes. And maybe peeking up a skirt or two (don’t tell my mother, she’s got Jesus jugs and a strong disliking for sexual maturity). Aren’t concussions hot? Jump out of that elevator and you’ll see. You can steal a toaster but you can’t steal a clawfoot bathtub. Still, I’ll die trying. Two stars for Olivia but none for the rest. I doubt whether Hitch would have unnecessarily thrown in a dead dog!


Commercial Break

This elegant carnation is for him (for his lapel) or her

(for her hat) and features a lazily rolling loading symbol.

Everyone who encounters the flower will know something

big is coming. The death of buffering ends with a video of

Joe DiMaggio drinking the last of the pickle juice, filmed

in spectacular technicolor. The carnation folds into itself

after, obscuring its tiny screen to achieve a more natural

effect. It’s a great gift for sock hops or funerals. All your

guests will be sure to love it.

Nice free breakfast each morning. Centrally located near

the pit of your stomach and the summit of your dreams. The

Blueberry Rainforest Resort is dedicated to providing our

guests with spectacular views of piranhas gnawing on human

remains and the sensation of coming to spiritually embody

the void. Come visit with us for a chance to come to terms

with bed bugs and the darkness within!

This cool and risky performance is not only a result of the

sinking feeling of floating upstream, but of years of the

careful and gregarious scientific method. If you think you

may be suffering from fits of ear scratches or bouts of

permanent marker sniffing, this may be the drug for you.

Ask your doctor about DeSorta, a sort of medicine for the

goblin within. You know he wants to be fed, so why not

feed him something nutritious. DeSorta is for the human

with balloon animal bones, with periwinkle on the brain.

Side effects include but are not limited to: Happy toes,

far-fetched ideals, glitter farts, necromancy, rising debt

ceiling, droopy fingernails, and death.

Come on down to MetaMarket for all your transcendental

needs. We sell rollback tarantulas. We sell happy coincidences.

We sell frozen lakes perfect for ice fishing. We sell the acute

need to be truly known. Head to our pharmacy to consult with

on-site physicians trained in doling out fateful jabs. Check out

our craft section. It’s stocked with miles of fleece fabric and

the inability to finish projects you’ve started. Stop at the food

court for the dine and dash special. We promise we won’t call

the cops. Come on down to MetaMart and find what you’ve

been searching for all these years.


Jackpot!

Got my diagnosis today: Binge Eating Leftovers.

I must stick my fingers in every sad remnant of

fajitas or emotional baggage I see.

It’s just me and the butter knives now. I throw them at

the stuffed rabbit tied to my Lazy Susan.

I put away my sense of entitlement. It got in

the way of my parka.

A thread of snot slips from my nose and hisses as

it slithers away. Shakespeare couldn’t have predicted

the poeticism of NyQuil.

Makeup should never be worn after Bastille Day.

Marie Antoinette was more than just a talking head.

I talked to God on FaceTime. He told me manatees are his

perkiest creation and that we could learn a lot from them.

A tractor rolls over in the snow. It requests a belly scratch and a

jug of apple cider.

All this and more can be found in the aphrodisiac

section of the local grocery. Yes, everything is there.


Indigo Palmer (she/her) lives among the post-modernist hippies of lower Oregon, and maintains a death grip on her Creative Writing BFA from Southern Oregon University. She dabbles in extreme lava lamp watching and avoiding the excruciating experience of being truly known. If bewitched, you can find her other work in the Wellness Zine, or under the name Rita Redd in the Lunch Break Zine, Wild Roof Journal, Book of Matches, and Jokes Literary Review. Twitter; Instagram.

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A POEM by MIKE GALLAGHER

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FOUR POEMS by NOAH POWERS