Mary Kay Letourneau Cannot Sleep, Writes another Love Note to Vili by Rich Boucher

There’s an odd stillness in the moment before I climb into bed with you, and then when I do the house spins and rises and journeys over and above the prairie, my love. You kiss me, and everything turns into a hard landing in a field in Oklahoma; you place your body with mine and all the world becomes a summer in Kansas. This merging of us, this making love, this doing it is dangerous; we fornicate with bleats and honks and our sweat becomes the mud that follows a beautifully disastrous rain. We know each other hard, carnally, making a change in the weather and as we do, the ceiling flies off of our house, yanked, snapping, from its moorings by the wind’s strong, irresistible fingers. Our bed doesn’t move, though; it is like a rock. The four walls of our bedroom fly away also, and we are on our bed in the middle of the quiet, Wild Plain. In our underwear, and then naked, and then the sky turns yellow and then dark yellow and then it turns dark dark dark as the storm of what we are creates a new weather all around us. As we ride each other, slick with sweat and singing with quickened breaths, the oppressiveness in the air forms a wicked, raucous cyclone of stormy black debris. Right above us, there’s a circular opening in the center of the funnel, hundreds of feet around, reaching straight up for miles and the walls of this opening are made out of rotating clouds lit up brilliantly by constant flashes of lightning that zigzag from side to violet side. The sounds of indescribable screams fill the air; there are cars and horses flying around everywhere in the greenish-black sky above us and all around us as we writhe; people are running past us on our bed from every direction, bleeding, covered with mud, many with hardly any clothes on at all and finding it difficult to breathe, finding themselves lifted from the ground and crying for help around our bed. My darling, our sex rumbles into this town like a freight train, and when we’re done the survivors all talk of how ominously we came, how suddenly we and our red silken sheets disappeared, whistling like ten thousand devils back up into the sky.

Come At Me, Bro by Rich Boucher

The Devil gets locked out of Hell
and panics, struggling with the overwrought iron gates
like an idiot but they won’t budge, locked, a firmly hard stone
and it occurs to the Prince of Darkness
that he’s going to have to find a new realm to rule

and so up he floats

up through the millions and millions of miles
of dark, lightless, sulfurous underground Earth,
rising, rising, rising and holding his breath,
pinching his nose with forefinger and thumb
so that he doesn’t get the bends
as he rises toward the light

and just as his head pokes out of the ground,
I lift my sandaled foot up and then down onto his horny head,
and I stomp him back down under the ground,
underneath the dew-dropped, morning dawn,
big grassy lawn of the world.

I’m Jesus Christ, bitch.

Nobody gets past me.


An old Ford is dragged out of the weeds,
a rusty car corpse, ten years of miles,
encased in three feet of mud.
Kids line up along the river,
one or two afraid they’ll see a corpse at the wheel,
the rest of them hoping for that very thing.

Cops hang about
So does an anxious mother
First glimpse of the vehicle emerging
and she can’t remember
if her precious son’s old piece of junk was red or blue.
But, by this point,
it’s got so that every dead boy is her son.

Someone yells out that there
is somebody inside.
Everyone is pushed back
by some uniformed officers
looking for something to do.
“You don’t want to see this,”
one of them says to a kid about ten years old.
He was born too late for freak shows.
This will have to do.

The corpse is hauled out,
immediately covered with a sheet.
The mother catches a glimpse of blonde hair.
It’s not her boy.
So nobody is really dead.

He’ll be identified soon enough.
Everybody leaves a trail,
But nobody’s there to witness the tears
of a mother in a distant city.
They’ve hung out
for the breakdown of someone they know.

The kids are disappointed
that they didn’t really see anything..
And just when they had a stranger
right where they wanted him.


I wrote a poem
that no one wanted to read.
So I handled it:
I created an account
and told myself, “You’re brilliant.”

I made a short film,
but it got no attention.
So I pretended
to be a producer and
offered to hire myself.

I had a car and
would drive it down to the ocean
to smell the water.
But I couldn’t pay a loan
and now I have to bus it.

I made women laugh,
wit and charm–if not my face–
opening the door.
But wrinkles and lack of cash
have slammed shut the open thighs.

I had a lover
who I saw once a month and
who stopped coming by.
Even though she found someone,
I kept texting, just in case.

I had such promise,
my dreams expansive and grand.
Then I moved here and
I gained weight, lost my youth and
still nobody knows my name.

Why does it always have to be metaphysical with you by Vaishnavi Nathan

You prefer to love with a fistful of red m&ms
Abandon all rules at the gates of horn and ivory
There is no sunset clause
I prefer to watch you dress than undress
While reading the Myth of Sisyphus
Calculating the satirical tragedy of the commons
I’m running out of metaphors
Why does it always have to be metaphysical with you
I don’t know where this poem begins