October 12-18, 2015: Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz and Jack Phillips Lowe

Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz and Jack Phillips Lowe

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Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz
gwjomi@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a writer living in Las Cruces where she makes bears, teaches, and reads.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Untitled

A wild turkey struts out from
the woods pecks
at grass from the porch
chair, I nudge the dog curled
at my feet “Look”
head lifts muzzle to bird before
the wide O of the mouth head
dropssuch
is the afternoon………..

 



Jack Phillips Lowe
pariahtales@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Jack Phillips Lowe is a lifelong Chicagoan. His poems have appeared in Clark Street Review, Nerve Cowboy and The Bitchin’ Kitsch. His poetry chapbooks include Cold Case Cowboys (Middle Island Press, 2013) and the forthcoming Jupiter Works on Commission (Middle island Press 2015). Lowe currently resides in the literary haven of Addison, Illinois, where it is illegal to own a window air-conditioner if your home faces a main road. Yes, really. http://pariahtales.blogspot.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Jack Phillips Lowe and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

A Hundred ‘Likes’

"Take it!" Lena insisted, pushing the iPhone, new in its box,
at Kurt as if she were throwing a life ring to a drowning man.

Kurt, though, looked at the iPhone like it was a hissing cobra.
"No," he half-whined, cowering on the park bench.
"You know I hate that shit."

Lena smacked her forehead with an open hand.
"And that’s exactly the problem!" she yelled.
"No Facebook, no Twitter, no Snapchat, no Instagram!
I don’t know what you’re into, what you like or dislike!"

"Lena, we talked about all that stuff when we went out for Chinese,"
Kurt said, soothingly. He gently touched Lena’s shoulder.

"Uh, yeah, like a week ago!" Lena huffed, pushing his hand away.
"I mean now, today, right this minute! Hell, most of the time,
I don’t even know where you’ve been during the day."

Kurt smiled. "You can always ask me, sweetheart."

"How?" said Lena, stuffing the iPhone into her purse.
"You don’t have a cell phone!"

Kurt scratched one of his graying sideburns.
"Lena, love is about acceptance. . ." he said.

Lena stood up and pulled out her own cell phone.
"You’re absolutely right, Kurt. I accept the fact that
I don’t want to date Michael J. Fox in 1985."
She aimed the phone at Kurt with one hand and
flipped him the Bird with her other.
The phone emitted a bright camera-flash.
"I’m un-friending you—forever!" said Lena, coldly.
With a flick of her long, brown-with-purple-streaks hair,
she turned and walked out of the park.

In seconds, the picture of a bewildered Kurt
and Lena’s middle finger was splashed across her Facebook page.
Within an hour, the picture received a hundred "likes,"
including one from Dmitri, a "friend" of Lena’s in Moscow—
they had not and never would actually meet in person—
who declared Kurt to be the biggest "mudak" in the world.
Which of course, in Russian, means "asshole."

 


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