Volume 3, Issue 2 Melancholy Predator Page 4 15 Sep 96
Continued from p.3
Unaware of the bizarre events, she continued to drive; there was a traffic jam outside Brazil, and she was forced to wait.
Meanwhile, back at the house, the husband realized the contents of his boxers did not include the key to his house. Unabashed, he took a chaise lounge from the garage. The couple lived in the country, so he wasn't to concerned about neighbors or pas sers-by seeing him in his polka-dotted undies. He set the lounger down in the middle of the driveway, laid down on it, and promptly dozed off.
His wife pulled in to the driveway after a prolonged battle with the Brazilian rush hour. Despite fatigue, she was safe and sound. Halfway up the drive she saw her husband sprawled on the driveway. Wouldn't you know it, the sight scared her so badl y that she stepped on the gas instead of the brake and ran the whole damn thing right through the garage.



Institute Destitution

			-Justin J. Dean
	Crazy, hazy, lazy days
	Nothing blends with Time
	Whole milk life fucked away
	with no reason
	     no rhyme.
	Chemical Dysfunction
	must amend
	take this try that
	     this is the help you lend?
	displaced me
	for safety's sake
	Keep them away
	Take this, you're safe
	Locked up with all of them
	Crazy Hazy Lazy
		Days.



How'd you like to be a guest illustrator for a week? Or finally publish that poem you've been staring at all year? If you ever finish that story, we've got a forum for you...
Contact bjl4009@rit.edu for information.

"Strange fruit from that Tree"
nightshift dawnglow of a grin
children eating paraffin
carbon sources self endorse
eat me for your main course
exploiting fatigue's drive-in
cherry coke, take-out treatise on sin
and double feature tonite:
Ants collide with Leaves of Grass
rushing to defend the nest 
from formic spiders 
who've captured the Queen
and dressed her in shameful motley
	confused, dazed light rays
	lids are riot gates
	on my eyes
broken bamboo tiger-trap
	in one mind and out the other
	everything will be just fined.
	wired in her words
	I'm the scribe 
	of the thirteenth tribe
	pages fuel the pyre
	burns bunsen burner blue
	burns the riot gates
		lets me see:
	tumultuous bliss
	around, before, and all through
		me.

- Mark Cicero

Previous Page | Vol.3 Index