Iambic Ixplosion

“Horses, whiskey, ropes”

by Timothy Pilgrim

People back East discuss politics.

Folks here talk robberies, wrecks,

gossip about neighbors, lovers,

tell jokes. Cowboys talk

horses, whiskey, ropes.


“Lonely Suzie’s Cardinal Points”

by Peter Lingard

West is always to the left.

the South forever frosty

East she always liked the least.

and North is nothing glossy.

Suzie read that Horace Greeley

advised in his newspaper

Go West Young Man, Go West.

So she upped and went to Perth

(Perth being left Australia.

Not frosty, a tad glossy

but definitely not East)

“Back Fired”

by Zachary Puente

I shot a friend

who wore armor of brass

So the bullet pinged

Loud so very fast

And came right back

into the fat


my ass

“Spenserian Word Sonnet”

by Ross Knapp













Selfish fucktards

Brilliant avant-garde

“Paper or Plastic”

by Ross Wilcox

For many years, I wanted to make a splash

in the grocery industry. I thought about inventing

an extra arm and the advantage I’d have in sacking

groceries. I thought about inventing a grocery sack

that could make its own groceries, the autotrophic

grocery sack. I thought about inventing a grocery

store that only displayed groceries but didn’t sell

them, a kind of grocery museum. I thought about

inventing a shelter for discarded and homeless

groceries. I thought about teaching these groceries

the Christian faith. I thought about inventing a grocery

swinger club where free-spirited consumers could swap

groceries. I thought about searching the woods for wild,

undomesticated groceries. And this led me to the source

of groceries, where they grow in nature without labels.

This was very traumatic for me, like seeing the Burning

Bush. I fled from the groceries because it seemed they

wanted to eat me, instead of the other way around. I ran

to the nearest grocery store. The florescent lights bathed

my skin, the sweet sodium filled my lungs and heart. I

brandished my coupons and started shopping.   

“The Higher Echelons of Swedish Society”

by Ross Wilcox

In the drawing room of the late 19th century bearded Swedish aristocrat,

Henrik Henriksson, important guests were served their afternoon tea.

Henrik pointed to a portrait of himself on the wall. That is me, he said.

That is also me, he said, pointing to another portrait of himself. And that.

And also that. In fact, all the portraits in the room were of him. And this,

he said, pointing to his own face. Wait, said one of the other guests,

who’s that? The guest pointed to a portrait. Henrik squinted. Why that

is none other than Henrik Henriksson, said Henrik. But I thought that

was Henrik Henriksson, said someone, pointing to a different portrait.

No, replied someone else, that is either Ingmar Bergman or Henrik

Ibsen, but it is not Henrik Henriksson. The guests nodded, including

Henrik. Henrik Henriksson is but one person, said a university professor,

he cannot be both hither and thither at once. The guests all agreed. If there

is a portrait of Henrik Henriksson in this room, I do not see it, someone said.

Nor I, said another. Indeed, concluded one, neither Henrik Henriksson nor

his likeness are in this room. The guests finished their tea and, with no one

in particular to thank for the hospitality, kindly took their leave.

“Hawking holy books”

by Timothy Pilgrim

They roam rundown Bronx streets,

student christians working  on the cheap,

lay out black Bibles on green felt,

plead with men slurping beer —

buy one, put us through seminary,

two, rescue children overseas,

three, save a family in Tibet,

build hospital, send kids to school —

church raffle tickets too — first prize,

New York-New York suite in Vegas,

buffet, poker chips, a show —

maybe discount Bible software,

with free dashboard savior,

head bobbing as up he goes.

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