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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.

Issue Four




A woman in her seventies gave birth, scarlet birth,
the baby twice-sired. One father,
a you-bet-your-life unorthodox rabbi, sported a military
cap and puffed on a Cuban cigar.
The second was a rather supple wax figure of a smiling Chairman Mao.

Our scientists, laboring with calloused minds,
endeavor to understand how it happened.
Our televangelists portentously spew.
The woman's husband, Rhett Butler? Frankly,
his world ended before he was imagined.

Farewell to Balance

We were having a nice
day until the four Nazis appeared.
Not neo-Nazis but historic Germans,
who took over the conversation in our breakfast nook.
An SS officer, wearing an eyepatch
and fresh from South America, insisted
I brew coffee. He chose a medium blend
more virulent than I knew
was in the larder—from Brazil or Ecuador,
I don't remember which. When the Nazis finally
left, I examined his cup; despite
the fuss he made, he hadn't drunk much.
The now-cold liquid was thin,
transparent, with extremely coarse sediments.
At first I thought the pebble-sized grains
might have been peanuts he'd dropped
into his beverage, for the hell of it,
but I soon realized the objects were
snails—still moving.

Ah, the worst part.
Instead of sealing the cup and its contents
in a hazardous waste enclosure –
how would I have known to do that? –
I spilled some on the floor, whereupon
a wicker den set sprang up, buckling our bas-relief tile.
When the furniture was taken away,
a bedroom suite replaced it: Mom's, it was called,
I discovered later. When that was hauled off,
a third phase: Dad's workbench.
We phoned the Center for Disease Control, whose
experts arrived. They said wicker
is a nuisance to clean, but the parental
pieces could obviously reproduce. Lying on the bed
or brushing past the bench
releases spores onto your clothing, spores
you might then unwittingly transfer
to countless other locations.

And there is no cure, except
annihilation of all life on the planet.

Desert Story

The first jet arrows north.
A phantom intercepts it, chasing south. They sweep
low in the moonlight, dodging saguaro. They trade fire high
over the ruins of Phoenix, soaring. The spirit
presses, launches one sidewinder missile –

forcing the young Navajo pilot to land.
His grounded plane's fuselage
vibrates from nose to an exhaust-hole at its tail.
Out the cockpit climbs a tribal elder,
face terraced like a strip mine.

Mark Blaeuer lives in Arkansas, a few miles southwest of Hot Springs. With an M.A. in anthropology, he worked in the fields of archaeology and physical anthropology. Later he was employed for twenty years as an interpretive ranger in the U.S. National Park Service. His poems and occasional translations (from Spanish) have appeared in dozens of journals, over several decades, and Kelsay Books has published a collection of his poems, Fragments of a Nocturne.

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