Criticism. Essay. Fiction. Science. Weather.
1A piece removed. 2Come eat it.
Or don't. 3Wine, Shoulder, Bolt, Socket. 4Mothbombs 5On the road with your only soul. 6One woman's trash is another woman's treasure 7Aliens! Right here in America! 8It's not as crazy as it sounds
or, music is as music does 91) Sign.
2) Hope for the best. 10A friendship in a bottle. 11A five-year-old tries his hand at action adventure. 12Will the circle be unbroken. 1390ways' first Quaterly Review rages on:
2 samples of Fiction. 14Muscles and fat.
A thin layer of sweat. 15Fiction goes serial.
Part 1 has sex and drugs.
You know you want to stay tuned. 16Our fiction serial concludes to cure your
vertigo from last week's cliff-hanger. 17An iced-out 21-speed sensation: The Moves are
all up on your handlebars. 18We're all in this together.
Except those bastards in administration. 19Jilted, laughed at,
and in the air. 20Swirling and swirling... 21You can't make yourself like them, but you have to pretend because they are your family. 22How well do jewel cases retain odor?
About as well as you stink. 23It's black and white. It's old world.
It's photo time. 24Piggy calls, wanting to sell you insurance.
This is what's on the other end of the line. 25A long pause, then, 26Fiction's Second Qaurterly Review
can speak Italian. 27It's only bread, after all. 28It's job search time at 90ways. 29George W. Bush's resting heart rate and a bum in a green sweater. 30Antique weaponry and teenage angst.
Together at last. 31One-hundred-fifty-three syllables
of October fun. 32there is only
self 33She's cold to the touch.
Cold and pebbly. 34Gut-wrenching love.
And wallabies. 35Building a habit out of ivies and orange flowers. 36A 90ways exclusive sneak peak at the
new and groundbreaking Alphabet Book. 37Type it with one hand and
see what happens 38A face any susbsitence farmer could love. 39The Quarterly Review: read it again for the third time. 40For every task, someone is the best.
Sometimes that's impressive. 41I didn't get a computer;
I moved to Indiana. 42A piece removed. 4390ways has new concerns about identity theft. Lock up the children and your sense of self. 44time. eyes. deep sighs. 45I know there's a place 4690 stars are born. 47I had to ask. 48It's about sex.
But isn't that always the way with classical music? 49The epistolary form in the 21st century.
Complete with neuroses and unpunctuation. 50There is no end to the party. 51Rockin to the sweet sounds of prepared food. 52Of or pertaining to. 53Including spaces, this blurb is 90 characters. Ways, words, characters. It is a leitmotif. 54Minnesota. Miami. Poetry in 90ways' Fiction.
It's the best of all worlds. 55It lives and breathes and is hungry for carnival food. 56A piece removed. 57The curtain is being pulled back... 58Up in the Fiction house! It's a bird. It's a plane.
It's an illustralogue! 59The hat, in all honesty, is a private matter. 60Putting up with all the doth. 6190words strike terror into the hearts of the longwinded. 62Return of the illustralogue! 63Take one down, pass it around,
blow your nose. 64A piece removed. 65The First Quarterly Review wants
you to meet its little friend. 66From our servers to your ear buds!
It's misguided enthusiasm, in podcast form! 67Questions for the man himself.
Plus, the podcast adventure continues. 68No one would ever use Starbucks
to define their identity. Right... 69Don't you remember the rose clipped under my windshield wiper like a butterfly under a pin? 70Oh, it's nothing.
Oh, it's life-threatening disease. 71It's not you. It's me.
And my Eurasian captors.
72Root, root, root for the brisk
sale of anything possible. 73Look within the very bowels of the soul.
Or at least your mother. 74We're not strangers any more. 75He knows of what he speaks. 76I find that often times I'm quite
mature enough to enjoy a few beverages. 77He is licking me.
I don't like it one bit. 78Our favorite stuff is coming 'round the mountain, again. 79A wooden-back brush and a homemade bowl of oatmeal. 80A man's home is his... 81Fack to the Buture. 82This dude pulled back on his nose
and mucus and unleashed a city. 83The polls are in. 93% of respondents do not approve of the monkeybone lodged in their lower lip 84Like a thirsty man in the desert 85Taxpayer dollars wasted on broken egg. News at eleven. 86She loves her red octopus.
She will chew it to death. 87Bubbling, gurgling, fighting a moment to stay afloat. 88Molting our pasts into the air... 89The Return of 90 Words 90It comes but once a... ever. 91Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, the end of the Fiscal Quarter. 92The 540 word circle is now unbroken. 93An emptying out of the animus, perceived as tranquility
94All roads lead to South Dakota. Or at least the I-90 does, anyway. 95He laid down his whittling knife and he and his brother took up arms in rage. 96Drinking manhattans made with a good bourbon, and strong. 97Living white and pudgy, I never expected much for myself. Now, I could tell that was true. 98A few gestural lines towards the thought of death. 99Rest in peace.
I know I will. 100And then we played baseball and then we played army and then we were best friends. 101We torn holes in sheets and became ghosts for each other's pleasures. 102I looked at the pictures of you, twenty years old,
sometimes skinny and sometimes your face a soft moon.
103Fingers clutching little trinkets of the day... 104All roads lead to South Dakota. Or at least the I-90 does, anyway. 105Everywhere signs of an interstice arriving. 106What you see and what you believe are two different things. 107It was as if a million literary ghosts poured from its pages, moaning to be set free. 108So what if too many times we have been here, both
lost in our machinations...
Impressions and Digressions: daytime/
nighttime, I-V, IX-VI
my mouth and laugh and falling down
winding with the carriage's spoken words.
eyelashes framing and small cast shadows
on two gentle spiderly grips.
one side warm and the other for later
left behind time, descending
lines in blue-green haze.
and morning comes so fast and night passes so slowly
when days are watered down.
off again and on the top of a muddy hill,
a king steps gingerly, avoiding puddles and other nuisances.
but he laughs with the peasant
and they both laugh together
and in time, they both laugh alone.
eastern amber westward
dims the shabby remains
and grows thick
like bells to their top.
the sounds of artificial wind
and utile rain mingle,
combine to render wakefulness
as they did sleep
before all this.
i can't help buy see it as a rehearsal,
though i've been told how real it is
inside a cat's yawn.
red plastic headlights
spin slowly, deliberately,
an expansion towards chrome,
blue not waterly or limp.
the air disturbed
and hypnotized by sin waves
killing green and preferring brown.
a breath from under the hood
seen up close across the beast.
crossing from town to country
under an enormous stone-skipping man
living low on the earth
so far to the south.
through white clouds of mist,
the tar road.
leaving the stink of human self-abuse
and eventually the natural stink too,
I enter to rest on a too small bed
in an upstairs room.
as if dead I sleep
and awake to sleep the day
in a flurry of
and self-inflicted pleasures:
all in avoidance of life this year.
but I am thankful.
nighttime V/ daytime IX
douce et legère-
je ne les ai presque pas vues.
elles étaient les idées importantes
qui ne restent ne en mots longtemps
ne en vers du tout.
my thoughts are
lost among shivering willows
casting off petals
freeing seeds into the wind.
they clatter in a dance
into my mind.
a sorrow since before me
is laid bare by the hovering blossoms
and a nearing warm ache, inside
holds the knot close.
seabirds out of place at
the corners of your eyes
hold them back and
lock them, gazing upwards.
petals gently fall.
in between breaths i can hear your tears
and my warm right thumb dries them
nous ne pouvons pas nous voir seules.
and days now pass slowly, the nights watered fleece.
fluctuations of snow and rain.
a command: sunny weather! mimic my mimic my mind!
my thoughts mere judgements of emoted others.
carriages rush flowingly by now and the mud that splashes
is even more refreshing.
i am filled
by an image of diving-in, foolheartedly whole,
tempting nothing; looking well on film
like wet streets in the night.
cold air feels warm,
though i'm made much cooler by my own feet.
all night. (and you claim i talk to myself.)
flutterbys. a name for our daytime chills,
obsession of day/night dichotomy;
i couldn't have misspoken.
but there's no real difference there
and my images are much more pleasing and real,
in the early days i realize the non-acceptance of
self-awareness in this consciousness.
but the box was
open anyway in
that ecstatic fever
"you can't clutch
it like it's your
"your only soul
is your only soul;
you can't make
that your only