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Poetry by Arlene Ang
Music: 'Adam's Bag' by Ben Tyree
Art: Umbrella Situation by Peter Schwartz
This Umbrella Handle is J
How many times have I, squelching at the splash of cars,
held on to him under the beastly rain?
From the beginning, my reputation
for fondue au fromage banquets was a big mistake.

Invitations stated a maximum of two children per couple.
Each person brought their own brand of immaturity.

J appeared late-with canned beans,
the Cold War, my discovery of steam power:

He had a balanced sense of nimbostratus.

He labeled his nuptial ring using elements
in the periodic table. He hinted about his relations

to epitaphs that didn't make the Spoon River
Anthology for purely economic reasons.

Why expect a serious relationship with dishwashing liquid
or scrub blindly at objects below sud level?

For six years, I faked my salvation
under his collapsible bird-cage designs.
On marriage licences: you see one, you've seen them all.
Luckily, they fall into disuse and are forgotten.

Like walking canes, dear-john letters
are still considered heirlooms and hence rightful dowries.

Dr. Lecter on His Couch
Last night I dreamed of Clarice again.
She was banging my door with
the fists of a 20-dollar prostitute.

Through the spyhole I could taste
her nipples foam my mouth with
the delicacy of fried cerebrum.

Her liver, when frizzled,
would ooze blood that swirls
Chateau d'Yquem through taste buds.

I knew this from her strong shoe scent.
When I opened the door, she smiled,
a 10-year-old once more, to offer me

her sampling of Girl Scout cookies.
I never took sweets from women,
but the arsenic of her sex made me

immune to danger, to the .45
she extracted from her skirted thigh
and pressed lovingly between my lips.

Art: Fried Lamb by Peter Schwartz
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last update: November 19, 2008