By TJ Price

You always have to have the last word whenever we fight, but this time, when you try to speak, a man in a ski mask crawls out of your mouth, scraping his shins on your teeth, and he assiduously sets to robbing us as if we weren’t standing there, shocked; he digs through the drawers*; he rifles through the shelves†; even steals the keys to the apartment‡; and finally, when he is done, he says something to both of us◊, then climbs into my gaping jaws and shuts my lips behind him, which purse like a keyhole§




* and thieves all of your underwear


† and rips out a single page from each of our books


‡ but only mine because you've lost your set again and that's what this whole fight is about in the first place, you're always losing things, always letting little things slide, like forgetting to lock the door at night even though I have said so many times I am afraid of things like this


◊ then robs the meaning of it, so that I don’t remember what he said in the first place


§ or a kiss.



TJ Price has left ghosts of himself all over New England, from the woods of northeastern Connecticut to the islands of southern Maine, though his most recent apparitions have been in the graveyards of Brooklyn, NY and Twitter, where his incorrigibly loquacious poltergeist can be invoked at @eerieyore.


Art by TJ Price.

By Clem Flowers

Set adrift on the rhythmic jangle of soon to be junked splendor awash in spilled sugar moonlight while I collapse into the bed on the whiteout section of the graveyard train as I spy the poplar trees racing on the 10 speed wind waving on all us tired eyes rounding third & heading home & neighboring wires of old telegraph poles catching every last drop of misery floating away on a lonnng curl of poisoned mulberry smoke that seems to linger in the sternum of the city where the factory stacks once stood vigil & ended up on the same path as steam engines, pointillism, & the dodo & I'm drifting off on a high tar strained piece of linguini that SkyMall had the nerve to call a "Comfort Supreme Pillow" surveying the passing scenery & wondering if anyone else notices the flowers on the cacti seem to all be flint grey & screaming.



Clem Flowers is a nonbinary bisexual living out near some mountains in the deserts of the American southwest with their wife and cat, trying to perfect making a homemade sweet potato fry.


Photo by Jason Thayer.