Lonely

and wishing for a miracle,

it finally came

in the form

of an e-mail

from a 24-year-old woman

with 8.5 million dollars

who offered to

move in with me

if I would help her

transfer the funds

to this country,

and

all I had to do

to get the money

and the babe

was to be

a little more

gullible

than

I already am.

You’ve Got Mail

are words full of life

and hope and

approbation,

alas,

No New Messages

keeps showing up

on my e-mail server,

and I doubt that

anyone will be beating

a path to my door

for the movie rights.

———–

Paul Hellweg has felt his whole life as if he didn’t fit in. Then a few months ago he discovered a new world of kindred spirits in the poetry universe, both online and at readings throughout the Los Angeles area. He’s thrilled to have finally found a place where he fits in just fine, sober or otherwise.

The night of the day I used the first label, I dreamed of starving
orphaned children with distended stomachs. They told me I should have
sent the nickel back, along with a generous check and a stamp to save
the charity the cost of postage. I ignored the children and returned
to my dream about eating ice cream with Angela Lansbury. Her favorite
flavor is strawberry, a rare choice.

The labels were decorated with puppies in various settings. Grocery
shopping. Driving a car. Checking e-mail. Playing racquetball. The
charity used the dogs to manipulate me, which pissed me off. I
considered throwing them out, but I didn’t ask the charity to make me
adorable personalized address labels and I didn’t want to be wasteful.
When someone puts my name on a birthday cake, I eat it. This has
never happened, but, if it did, I would be gracious and have a slice,
even if I wasn’t hungry.

I mailed a check to my dentist, using the athletic cocker spaniel. I
dreamed that my teeth fell out. I tried to eat some birthday cake,
but it made me drool and got all over on my face. I put the cake in
the blender with some milk and drank it with one of the red straws I
took from Wendy’s.

I sent my rent check yesterday, using the label with a Labrador
writing an e-mail. I dreamed it was addressed to me. I opened it and
read it. It said screw that charity. Let’s go play some racquetball,
then get the poodle to drive us to the store for some cake. You still
got that nickel?

————

Lauren Becker lives in Oakland, California. Her work has been published in Pindeldyboz, Storyglossia, Wigleaf, Pank, and elsewhere.  She likes e-mail, bubble gum and carbonated beverages.

I ended it on the fourth of July

But still she cried and threw things at me.

That’s the trouble with American girls:

They don’t ‘do’ Irony.

Thunder

If I’m lying, she said, may the ground open up and swallow me.

And as the words left her lips a sound like thunder filled the air.
 
It was only a passing motorcycle

But Christ, did it make her jump.

On Buying a Curry from an Unknown Restaurant While on Holiday

Toothy crunch on crispy shell

Tongue seeking clues among meat and vegetation

An answer to the unvoiced question:

Cockroach or cardamom?

Indian Haiku

Teeth crunching on shell

Nervous tongue seeking answers

Cardamom/Cockroach?

————

Mr Smith lives in Tunbridge Wells, England, but is not particularly disgusted. This is ‘English humour’. If you don’t get it, you are probably not English. Or maybe you are English but too young. Or English but lacking a sense of humour.

Most of the verse Mr Smith writes is written for children, but occasionally he writes for childish adults too. Mr Smith briefly lived on the moon and once punched a koala in the face.