Dear Poet,

 Sorry, but my Russian

Wolfhound, Dostoyevsky

ate and defecated all the

submissions for Issue #3

the smell and smear damn

near killed me.

Was your poem about

catching your brother

cornholing his buddy while

watching Andy Griffith?

Or was it the one about Sandpaper

Sally, the chick with scabs in her

vagina? Or the nuns with the dildo

and splinters? Please resubmit.

Having never heard of any

of this, I poured a glass half full

of icy vodka squeezed a lime in

and drained it, the mirror smiled 

The cinnamon moon was

a slice less than full, shining

through the web in the window,

where two buzzing flies struggled

and a centipede slowly joined them.

Fat Fuck

Fat Fuck offered me a job in

his Chinese restaurant, but said

I’d have to work under the table

I thought cool, cash money, so

I put on my tight waitress outfit

with black lace nylons and a golden

Beaded snake vein running up the

back of my legs, disappearing under

my blood red leather mini-skirt

On my first day I grabbed an apron

and a serving tray, the kitchen staff

looked at me and each other and

Broke up, laughing, Fat Fuck said,

“Working under the table, means

you’re the blow job, girl.”

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