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Picture, in your mind's eye, a buffalo.

Now picture that same buffalo
mating with a lizard.

As you are picturing this,
try to imagine what it would be like
to emerge from the womb
of a shivering wolf.

And then you will know
what it means to be in love.

And you will feel a little better
about how far away
the edge of the universe is

as it expands like a
frog's throat,
leaving behind the past,

Because the past can hurt.

Photo by Nadia.  Words by Randy.  

"i brought you a fuggin cookie."

"I brought you a fuggin cookie," he mumbled as I waddled past him, my thigh glued to my knee.  What a bastard.  What a fart tard.  What a blend we are.  What a night.  What a spark plug tangerine sunrise we hope to find presently.  And lastly, god bless the punch bowl for never pulling any. 

A. Aspirin
B. Ibuprofin
C. Hair of the dog
D. A swift head-butt to the heart-shaped-pillow of this moment.

Photo by Amanda & Randy.  Words by Dustin.

"The Fight Is Never Over"

I will probably die in a sword fight.

It's something I have in common 

with a gladiator or two.

They'll lay my body in

a field of green grass

and cover it in birdseed.

The birds will first eat my eyes.

Then they'll steal my wallet.

And buy drugs with my credit card.

I'm not talking about heroin.

I'm talking about cough syrup.

A lot of birds have the whooping cough.

Like the whooping crane.

He sits and waits silently in the shallow water.

Here, fishy fishy fishy.

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Randy Conner.

"The Name of This Poem Is"

I imagine that life is a road

Let me start over

I imagine that life is a swirling

cloud of moths hovering

over an (almost) brand new

Cadillac 

I imagine that life 

is just a series of parties

where people ingest gold

and try to one-up their

neighbors by having

a bigger swimming pool

I imagine, I'm sorry, WE imagine

that life is...

Sorry

It's hard to focus when you 

make that clicking sound

with your teeth

Sorry, not your teeth

I meant to say

Your childhood

Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Randy Conner.

The Two Girls on the Beach

The sun and the sky

Provide the perfect backdrop

For a happy scream

Photo by Angela Shields.  Haiku by Randy Conner.

"Snow, Man"

I have a feeling that every

body is full of TV static,

the "snow channel"

Or else they are channel 6,

the evening news,

a car crash made love to an eel 

Sometimes I'm the nature channel

I've got a mouthful of lungs

I pause at the lip of a deep green pond…

I am an animal.

I am an animal.

Photo by Amanda Grupp. Words by Randy Conner.

"Fashion"

 

Everybody's got 

a peacock's moronic pride
'cause their clothes are hip

 

 Painting by Christina Steele.  Haiku by Randy Conner.

This plane is going down.

I should've worried less about ______.

I should've _______ more.

I should've had ________.

I should've made more _______.

I should've been less afraid of __________.

I should've enjoyed every __________.

I should've thought of this

before it was

too late.

This plane is going down. 

Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Randy Conner.

the ant in my eardrum

 

I wanted you to appear so badly.

Every time anyone walked through the door,

I transformed them into you.

From the corner of my eye you entered the room over and over.

You are the ant in my eardrum.

That’s pretty brave. The night end. The way we move. This is the hangover. This is the tiresome ending to beginning to end. We know how it goes. I can hear you. I can hear everything from here.

You are the ant in my eardrum.

'You’re not listening to me.

You’re in the field.

You’re waiting.

You see?’

I see.

Painting by Randy Conner.  Words by Joseph Ettinger.

The Worm

The worm.
That's what we have here.
A snake without eyeballs.
He's slimy and slimy,
Yet dry if he loses his way
As he wanders across
What we shall call a "sidewalk".

He lives in dirt.
He spends too much time
stressing about his heart condition,
Which is funny, because,
You know.
The stock market is crashing.
The birds are flocking.
The rapists are teething.
The ice cracks oh so slowly
Under my, shall we say, feet.
But where was I?
Ah, yes.
The worm.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Randy Conner.

Infinitely Possible

If we could all be'a spaceman

  Earth'd be empty, and
  Crops wouldn't grow, and
  Busses wouldn't go, man.
Who's makin babies
  When there's the cosmos to explore?
Who's writing Hamlet
  When feet don't touch dirt anymore?

This is for the teachers and preachers 

The trash collectors and loan rejectors
The geriatric walmart greeters and postgrad yuppy  wallstreeters.
This is for you and you is beautiful

If we could all be spacemen

  Kids wouldn't flirt, then
  Love wouldn't hurt, then
  Life wouldn't work, End?



Painting by Randy Conner.  Words by Fred Watford.

Shadows

street light lassos them through one way mirror
stretching through cataract mist
wandering lightly sauteed in cloud butter

city under skyline stolen from reflection
sacrificed to Poseidon
                          can you feel him swallowing it all up?

Photo by Amanda Grupp and Randy Conner. Words by Ciara Brewer.

the flower

Most things are concealed 

inside of

fluorescent light or

inside a bubble of

social anxiety.

But some things,

silent, delicate things

(imagine a hyena's

last breath),

while not moving, can

be exploding,

and ache with a 

muted tragedy or perhaps

a perfect happiness

(Imagine a plane crash)

(Imagine the same plane 

crash in slow motion).

I JUST DON'T KNOW.

And somewhere, thousands of miles away,

the hooves of a deer trample softly

the midnight snow.

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner.

Gypsy Potpourri

----------------

AS a matter of fact-

The car’s collision occurred around ten am, this placed me post-breakfast and thinking myself in circles near Third and Vine.

This placed me in the eye of the hurricane.

Two deaths, simultaneous;

Hopefully it didn’t take these two mangled strangers

Cemented to the metal

-And the glass

Their deaths to realize their lives

[often times this seems to be the case].

At least the Egyptians always placed that sack-old brain in the most

Ceremonial of jars.

[what a buzzkill reality]

I took another sip of Luke-warm coffee.

Scribble,

 scribble,

 scribble.

I wondered if the bodies knew that I was  writing about them

[I hope they’re weren’t self-conscious].

it’s just-

The protagonist and antagonist were the same.

-the ists.

The families arrived in a gleaming blue lexus, the color of a violinist’s sunny day.

The bodies (butterfly)

The families (hurricane)

A slew of human emotion.

Don’t get me wrong-

It’s not that I didn’t feel bad,

It’s that I just knew:

That ticket would be punched eventually.

I’m still quite certain

-After heating the coffee

-After filing the report

All lifeless parties involved would have certainly

Stepped aside

Reconsidered

Existence.

It’s inevitable.

[or we bought all of that life insurance for nothing].

Photo by Randy Conner. Words by Justin David Koontz.

Smoke Rolls,

I know that.

I see from the left and the right and the center

Where it climbs over everything that can’t be had

By hands

Or by fingertips

Or

L o n g

Forgotten signals

Of the calling machine;

Underneath the seat

-Where my brain sits.

                               These things happen

Smoke: the unaccounted for

And uncontrolled

In the Universe.

They appear left and right and center

-If they are seen like they’d like to be.

But the smoke’s indifference puts to rest

Every iron

Of astute assumption

In the vein of knowing.

Bent around my hands and still ascending

a-w-a-y

from where my breath and my eyes and my words go.

I don’t take it personally.

Through windows

You can hear the scientists gathered

-They are manic

Tossed hands raised up

And palms to the sky

They are reciting old prayers and incantations.

They are guessing.

They told me there are 53BILLIONPLANETSINTHEGALAXY

They told me not to take life so personally,

They told me to smoke-

Because the Universe needs more carbon

And the typewriter is out of ribbon,

And the ribbon is out of ink.

Don’t take it personally. 

Photo by Randy Conner. Words by Justin David Koontz.

WHEEL

 

To the man who invented the wheel,

Thanks.

You gave us all whiplash.

I would let anyone 

punch me in the face

right now.

Photo by Angela Shields. Words by Randy Conner.

"Tall Grass Can Be Violent"

Tall grass can be violent,

and so can a mistake.

Have you ever stubbed your toe

on a dead body?

Everyone is fashionable

somehow.

Take this grass:

Its hair is bleached 

and its knuckles are

bloody like

the jawbone of

a horse.

I'd like to show you something.

It's a word I just made up.

"Heiosueltkooawe"

It means I'm sorry.

Photo by Julia Kruy.  Words by Randy Conner.

"Popular Science"

---------------------------------------

A meteor cannot ever touch the ground

Or else it becomes a meteorite.

This is a fact.

So is this:

"Before mating,

The male giraffe will

Drink the female's

Urine."

Two giraffes sit

Side by side

In a car at sunset.

(It's a convertible, of course.)

As they inch closer,

Painted pink by sweet

Sunlight,

A meteor is on its way to meet them.

Their giraffe lips almost touching,

A dog is heard barking in the distance.

Meteor... meteor... meteor...

Meteorite. 

Every photo is a photo of the past.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Randy Conner.

endoftheline

Cold steel, have you ever touched it? 

Locomotives ------ take us west.

Or else take our souls.

(Hey ______, when you get this letter, I'll already be gone.)

Imagine, if you will, a small bird. 

He hops alongs the fence,

Meditating on the 

Way the sun darkens skin and

Lightens hair.

Guess what.

That bird is fertilizing the grass.

Suicidal sparrows are common.

I actually died once, thorax halved by train.

I remember it like I remember my first 

Knife throwing accident (it was no accident).

Everyone's always whispering

As I walk by,

THAT GUY IS GOING NOWHERE.

Now I can see why.

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Randy Conner

"Mores Are For Whores"

We've been given our plot to till,

But we've thrown a ghost in the air

So that locusts may converge,

As we run and hide in the arms of convention.

And now, the dichotomy of the self.

The sound of that iron string is fading,

Because emulation is the shortest distance to nowhere.

And nowhere seems to be a favored destination.

I can't hear a thing over the sound of this defeat.

Somebody call a doctor, my flesh is falling off the bone.

Don't listen when the sirens are sounded.

Hold fast to the ropes that wrap your guts,

Or be hanged by them.

Words by Randy Conner. Photo response by Sadie Myers. (Edited by Lear Bunda.)