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September 2010 A Cynic Online Magazine Publication Volume 12 Issue 9 


Days
By Marc Carver - Contributing Poet

The night goes on
As it must,
Time stands still,
As
it must.

Maybe tomorrow will be different
But I don't think so
All the days seem the same.
They don't
Differ at all.

Why should they
They are just days.
The Mondays become Tuesdays
The Tuesdays become Wednesday s
When will the end of the week come
The end of the year.

The final day.
The day
to end all days.


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Death of Slowpoke
By KJ Hannah Greenberg - Contributing Poet

My turtle's name was Slowpoke.
His eating needed coxing.
When he, at first, stopped biting me,
I thought that he was joking.

His antics brought me happiness.
His actions brought me joy.
His green and yellow dappled shell
Made him my perfect boy.

Together, we explored his tank.
As one, we crawly quite free.
In concert, we had days of fun
Until he died on me.

Grownups tend to hush up death.
They want us kids to smile.
I wish they'd know that in this world
We're sad once in a while.


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Car Talk
By DM Ward - Contributing Poet

He loved them bright, shiny, spanking new
Every couple years
Or so
Another one in the driveway
Never the same model or make
Color or company
One time a convertible
Then a four-cab truck -- to go with the camper
Two years later a diesel coupe
And then an off-road, four wheel drive Jeep
He fell hard for each new set of wheels
Swore that ‘this one's a keeper'
Stick shift or automatic
It didn't matter so long as it smelled of fresh leather
He loved getting to know the curves and contours
Loved the way his hands felt as he stroked the gears
But coveting his new mid-life Chrysler
He needed a younger model in the passenger seat
What had accompanied him on his journeys over the past decade
Traded in
It was only later he realized
He'd swapped a classic Mercedes S-class of a woman
For the quick hit of a lightly used Ford pick-up truck


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MBA
By N Petrone - Contributing Poet

I got shit stuck on my sole
said I can sell this
at interest
with a catchy jingle, some tits, a flag

I saw the best minds of my generation
on Madison Avenue

the best and brightest
ate up all the crumbs
off the plates of the poor
built castles made of plastic

and ran from the Invisible Hand
when things got too hot
on the Street.


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Melville/Seinfeld
By Robert Laughlin - Contributing Poet

Choose a mighty theme, said Melville.
Better that, and bore you stiff,
Than write a lovely book on nothing
Or as near as makes no diff.


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Less Than Three
By Jacob Kreutzer - Contributing Poet

It took three years
for an average man,
in an everyday town,
to ask a special woman for it;
three months
for two lonely souls
to drop the adjective
and gladly express it;
three weeks
for a nervous wreck
to get up the courage
to chase a chance to get it
And it only took three days
for a dead man
in a cave
to fully show it.
I want you to know, and never forget
that I want you to have something better.
I want to give you less than three.


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Light Surrated

By Alex Alderete - Contributing Artist


Random Thoughts
By Pali Tripathi - Contributing Poet

Instances and stupor,
Just a word or a murmur.
Inexplicables and clarifications.
Could it get stranger? or simpler?

Unnerving yes, Euphoric too.
But looking back at a day
Or an hour or a moment...
brings back myriad hues.

I wonder and wonder some more..
On all that is and was and would be...
Answers are few and far between...
but do I care...Do I?


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Extrication
By Joanne Marie Firth - Contributing Poet

Laborious extrication
Tightly woven cocoon
Held secret the transformation
Sloughing off the willing incarceration
Emerging, confidence forthcoming
Metamorphosis complete


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A Shot in the Dark
By Joan Droguett - Contributing Poet

Her navel was near perfect
clean. Smooth belly dimple
it was just deep enough
to hold a thimble
of whiskey

A shot in the dark
I missed and
lost
the game

So I told her
she looked too much
like my mother
and just like that
she was gone.


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I Do Not Know Why
By Priyanka Bhowmick - Contributing Poet

I do not know why
the sudden wind comes up
through the wreckedness
ruining the beauty of earth
with its rage.

I do not know why
the sun shines
so outrageously
that nature is bound to hide
her face beneath the shade of clouds.

I do not know why
the mind of human
dwells in the home of devil
becoming the fate
of others' lives.

I do not know why
the child cries
coming out of its mother's womb
though it's an occasion
a festive moment.

I do not know why
the kitten runs after its mother
though it has to spend
its entire life
being self dependent.

I do not know why
the mountain stands so still
even in the seductive power
of breeze passing by it
each moment.

I do not know why
the tears come down
even when I stop it
sealing all my emotions
sealing all my love.

I do not know why
so many questions
arise, though the answer
hidden in the core
of life.


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Reading the Newspaper
By Lee Stern - Contributing Poet

The best way to read the newspaper
is to fold it in quarters so you can read it one story at a time.
Otherwise, I think, you tend to get overwhelmed by it all.
And it's hard to concentrate solely on the story that's in front of you.
It's like being asked to read two books at the same time
and take concurrent notes.
And, I guess, some people can do it OK.
But with me, it's always been a problem.
If I read a story about the oil spill, for instance,
I don't want to be distracted by anything else.
If I read a story about why I didn't go there and help clean it up,
I want the sentences in front of me to float like a precipice
near the harbors I found in the boats I was able to row.






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