Ryin and the Toaster – R.H.

Ooooeeeeeeooooooooo the cops are coming, you better hide everything you’re ashamed of, and also yourself if you’re Mexican or black, god knows what cops will do to you then.

Ryin and the Toaster

Ryin Goose was out in Canada on a wild goose chase after his mother and wife left him and took the kids. He was left alone all sad and depressed, trying to get custody over them because he actually wasn’t a bad parent. They just filed him for rape and pedophilia because they hated him and wanted to ruin his life like the sadistic people they are.
“Oh why must life be this way!” He cried in anguish as he clutched close the only thing that mattered to him. His family heritage. The centuries old toaster his family lineage had been passing down for ages. This time around though, it looked like it was going nowhere.
Ryin would cry soulful tears, all of them falling on the ancient toaster. Suddenly, it came alive.
“Stop crying you damn sissy,” it said, surprising Ryin goose so he threw the now sentient toaster, immediately apologizing afterwards like the Canadian he is.
“Oh wow you can talk!?” Ryin spoke with amazement. This was like that one Pokemon movie, but different. Gotta avoid copyright, am I right?
“No thanks to you, you baboon. Now stop crying, I know how to fix your life,” said the toaster.
Ryin would nod and say, “Okay,” with the most pathetic voice you could imagine. Because he was very pathetic in this very moment.
“Okay, so, fake your own death and set up a new identity in another country. Badda Bing badda boom, you’re good as new. No more rape and pedophilia charges,” the toaster said.
Wow, this toaster was an absolute genius! He figured it out so quickly! Ryin goose was certainly saved from the charges his wife and mother threw at him! He wouldn’t get the kids, but he could just make more of those so it was okay.
“How do we start?” Ryin goose asks.
“Well, kill yourself,” says the toaster.
Harsh, but okay.
Ryin goose climbed the highest building and jumped off of it, literally killing himself. What a baboon, he fooled the plans.
“Oh my fUCK ing gOD Ryin gOOSE you PATHETIC LOOSER!! You straight up killed yourself and probably on purpose too!! I FUCKING HATE YOU!” The toaster fUMED. He had now set his life goal from toasting the best toasties, into toasting Ryin goose’s entire family.
With his super high IQ, the toaster made himself better, the best he’s ever been. Better than when he was first born.
Now equipped with flame throwers and guns comparable to having a chain gun fused with anti aircraft, the toaster was ready to toast the rest of the goose family to a crisp. He set out, using ancestry.com and his extensive toaster memory as guides.
The toaster would arrive at Ryin goose’s wife and mothers house. Without even ringing the doorbell, the toaster fired. Without even going through a round of ammunition, the house was obliterated and everyone inside was instantly dead.
He continued onto his father, and his mother’s siblings, and his father’s siblings, and the siblings children, and their children, and on and on until the goose bloodline was obsolete.
“I can go back to toasting toasties,” the toaster said, now content with what he did. “God, if you can give me to a great family, I’ll give up my sentience.”
“Aight, cool,” God said and Thanos snapped his fingers.
The toaster poofed into the hands of a bigger, better, stronger family than the goose’s, and he served them as the best regular toaster he could be, toasting the best toasties.

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POETRY: MARLENA CHERTOCK – CEMETARIO GENERAL

Cemetario General

Cemetario General is one of the largest cemeteries in Santiago, Chile. Patio 29 is a plot used to bury the disappeared, the homeless, the unidentified, and victims of the Augusto Pinochet military dictatorship.

 

What’s left of them is arranged in boxes,
fifty or so line a wall.
He turns off the leaf blower,
passes a woman kneeling, her head lowered.

Even in death there are mansions.
Glass criptas encasing tías.
He coaxes leaves away
from the marble structures.

In a narrower section
ice cream and chip vendors push their carts.
Crowded together are plots of dirt, maybe some hierba,
a Nescafé bottle filled with wilted hydrangea.

He asks families to give more.
Sometimes there’s no response. So he digs up the land
and transfers what endured to a mass plot, Patio 29.
He’s so close to the body then, touching its bones.

At home he holds his esposa’s hips
as she cooks dinner, the smell of her sweat and the humitas
mixing in the kitchen air,
holds her as she undresses and they lie down together.

Find her at marlenachertock.com or @mchertock.

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poetry: Joseph Somoza – Hasta La Vista

Hasta La Vista

Here I find myself again,
in the company of
trees and sunshine,
a quiet workday morning.
It’s like emerging from a tunnel
where my mind was cloyed
with mundane matters such as
providing food, doing dishes,
and having to
respond to others—

who are my family,
who have gone back now
to being themselves
in the far distance where I can
make out the details better,
hear their words more clearly
in the sparse air between
here and there, as if minds can’t
co-exist in close proximity
and must always be
sent on their way.

Order Joseph Somoza’s new volume of poems As Far as I know (Cinco Puntos Press, 2015).

 

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MICHAEL DWAYNE SMITH – THE SANITY PSALMS

The Sanity Psalms

Drunkenness should be supported more in public life.

I was just sitting around downing bottles of

Samuel L. Jackson’s Shithouse Porter

(with the occasional Fish House Stout),

and I was listening to Mickey & The Wifebeaters’ latest album,

Top Ten Suicidal Truck Driver Songs, when I realized

neither Jesus nor Pterodactyls are in the Constitution.

I heard a heavenly voice say,

“You have made drunkenness respectable, sir,” except no, no,

that voice was my drunk uncle, known to all his nieces as

Drunkula (for creeping around rooms at night in search of a kiss

and asking, “Mind if I pee in your hamper?”),

but this time instead of creeping my drunk uncle taught me

the fool-proof, guaranteed 100%, Three Step Formula for Success

passed down for generations in our clan. Step one, set a goal.

Step two, forget about it. Step three, do something else.

He had the evidence to back it up; he declared,

“I got a paycheck last week, I don’t know about you.”

This was late night stoner TV, without the pictures.

The guy became pretty annoyed and started rambling about his

brain being ripped apart by angels. That one I knew because

at school they taught us the Hall of Fame is in Franch, everybody’s

drunk uncle stumbling around the neighborhood. So, yeah,

if wrong were a country, he’d be the capitol.

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POETRY: NATALIE CRICK – WEDDING CAKE

Wedding Cake

 

We eat the top of your wedding cake,

Stale sugar pieces cracking our teeth,

 

Promising each mouthful

To be the last,

 

Buttercream drooling from

Sticky fingers,

 

Pregnant with cream,

Pink pearls to be kissed.

 

Plump lips wait,

Shivering from loneliness.

 

We listen to the screaming downstairs

 

The plastic bride and groom

Sucked clean of sweetness.

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POETRY: NELS HANSON – GUESTS

Guests

A lost dog and at his side

a lost friend are running day

and night across blue rivers’

bridges, down red roads not

clay but pavement, from state

to state each a map’s different

color. No time for rest or sleep,

to eat, only random wild root

or berry, quick short drink from

a cold spring. Each hour I hear

them growing closer, closer,

expect at any second one kind

paw scratch at my screen door,

the whisper of patient knocking,

muted, shy, polite but unafraid

no one will answer after their

long journey as I rise to greet

my two guests, the strangers

I’ve waited all my life to meet.

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