collaboration
ENDOMA is open to collaboration:
we welcome your comments and creative input
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POETRY
Portal
by Claire Basarich
Here, people construct their dreams
wood planks, mud, electricity, skyline
Plug into port
Prepare for dream to appear:
escapism
choose at random
I am a statuesque blonde
with a long neck and a sad face
my face is full of powder
My husband is man of the house
short in stature and named for strength
he holds me down by my long neck
The house is painted blue and gold
like a castle in a picture book
my man tells me
The other wives won’t touch my child
been rainin’ hard now
gone on two weeks now
I find him sitting on the wet cement stairs
He’s been waiting for me
I gather him in a towel and coo him close
Princess, they call me. And throw
powder in my face, on the floor
the violence of jealous cats
striking out
In the rain, the powder melts
muddied, the circuitry fails
reboots, reroutes, wrong
I am holding
a wet cat in a towel
throwing
books on the floor
the pictures stare up at me
their gazes
like cement
I am running
through the forest
my blue dress trailing in the mud
damp golden hair round my neck
like seaweed
like wet rope
run into a slope
of wooden beams
a ramp of wet pine
my damp red hands
scrape against
the cold wet golden grain
of the wood
I slide backwards
again, again, again
and
awake.
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POETRY
Machine
by Kiely Sweatt
Look, Eye, Flick, Swift, Smack, and wallop.
School is shortened, discipline relaxed.
Save pressing buttons.
Organize and super organize.
The mind drinks less and less.
Towns to motels.
People to nomads.
The parlor aunts laugh
and everyone laughs back.
Books stop selling
but comic books survive
and make new art from 3-D sex magazines.
No dictum, no declaration.
“Intellectual” is a swear word.
“The Book;” a loaded gun we keep swaying by burning.
So bring your clubs, parties,
heroine and sex,
anything with automatic reflex.
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AUDIO
by Nick Reddel
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POETRY
“Rain is something that has always happened in the past”
by Edward Smallfield
whan that Aprilewith his shoores soute
April
is the cruelest month
a dateuna fechamarks
here’s rosemary—that’s for remembrance
to remember
a future
under glass
shall we skift?
life is an expe, old chum,life is an expe
an inside requires an outside
naked sun
in thin air
to wring
a little life
from the rocks
or to learn to finger greenon the floor
to remember
a dateuna fechauna cita
a quote
the language of the experience
the experience of the language
a wordmeaningless
unless agreed
by a pair
of us
at least—
no beginningno ending
we are always in the middle of—
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