Jeffrey Spahr-Summers
REVOLVER
were my horoscope to be believed i should be sitting pretty
practically instantly upon reading that plucky venus is
apparently making an epic love connection with neptune today i
presume on my behalf instead i sit with my roommate on beat
up white plastic folding chairs in front of our house discussing
with disappointment these mushrooms we were given really
johnny says suitably amazed i always thought magical mystery
tour came after the white album nope i say extra emphatic back
PER-SPEC-TIVE
caught
in a dali moment
just outside of wichita
just after dark in kansas
a ballerina of the cornfield
not far up ahead the
hot red hail of tail lights
just up ahead
a white tail deer pirouettes
in a puff of steam
just like this
as the hot blood trips
the frigid air
in my headlights
a strangely beautiful arc
of crimson red
ATTILA ON THE BUS
“Orleans!” Attila snaps at the bus driver. “New Orleans? This is Nebraska bro.” The bus driver snaps back. “ORLEANS” Attila spits. “Whatever.” The bus driver slams his foot down on the accelerator. Attila stumbles down the aisle almost dropping his saber, and plops down next to a strange woman. She glares at him sideways, sniffs, and scoots decisively to the edge of the seat.
ATTILA ON THE COUCH
“Your feelings of rage are symptoms of having an overbearing mother,” said the doctor, moments before his head bounced across the floor.
Find more poetry from issue #1, available in print and digital.