Spring 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 2 Poetry |

Lost in the Streets

             of north america again in our stolen car, damn it, eddie, where are we going so adamant about the blurred landscape we describe as it slips past the windows, what if we went out dressed to kill and ended up stabbed by the blades of fashion, would it be ironic or would they say "what did you expect," would they be laughing, eddie, would they forget, the hands of fate have sweaty palms and our names keep slipping off who was the girl beneath the bridge, who was the girl in treasure island, give me a match, light my menthol and I'll tell you all the lies of summer, it pours and we skid, it pours and we skid and nothing happens, eddie, why does it pour, is it true the old man packed a case of vodka for hawaii, will they notice the damage when they return, why did they leave the keys, did they think i would keep you out of this rain, did they think the drought would stay behind with the dogs and the winter wardrobe, he cleaned out the cupboards, the

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They Shoot Birds

By Dionisio D. Martínez

             of north america again in our stolen car, damn it, eddie, where are we going so adamant about the blurred landscape we describe as it slips past the windows, what […]

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