Sean Lovelace is running right now, far. Other times he teaches at Ball State University. HOW SOME PEOPLE LIKE THEIR EGGS is his flash fiction collection by Rose Metal Press. His works have appeared in Crazyhorse, Diagram, Sonora Review, Willow Springs, and so on.
Duotrope’s Digest (August 4, 2005-October 14, 2010) Duotrope died today, of its own name, some vague ailment of droopy eyelids and an ass so smart its brain filled its hole and then all the universe exploded into the nearest ceiling fan. Today dead, Duotrope of serial liposuction, as in the last time (Jesus, chill-the-fuck-out, you Heidi Blair Montag of a site. Hey guys, leave Newpages! We got bigger tits!) they crunk-a-ma-jigged the layout and then hit me and my kin up for money. (As I write this, Duotrope is status HIGH, as in YELLOW, 36% short of their monthly pecuniary quest. Year-to-Date they are 20% short, labeled HIGHE$$T, or Holy Fuck!, a RED alert 4 alarm {low} fire of tattooed lipstick. [Like our government, Duotrope has a color code system that all but douche bags ignore]). Duotrope dead of popped pronephros, dribble, dribble…Duotrope deceased, choked on the very versicolor vomit of statistics they choose to shove down our hoary throats (They eat it too, see? That’s how they know it tastes good.) Do you understand Willow Springs accepts 0% of submissions (well, fuck me and my latest Spam-villanelle), yet they reject 88%? (If you don’t believe me, go to Duotrope.). Dark times, folks. Death by jostled lynx this morning, Duotrope. Dead by sub-sprachgefühl, I mean divaricator/dust, of course. Or simple spoon? Note: Duotrope killed today by wound of flung nacho. Duotrope eaten by my father. Like every empire (or umpire) known to history, Duotrope has fallen. Croaked. Expired. Sad to report, that spreadsheet we once called Duotrope, dead as disco this morning, done, d-uh, died–of exposure.
Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week.
1. if someone buys you a beer at a bar, buy them a beer soon-or-later (you slaw-cheeks fuck)
2. when you drop/dwell by my house and bring a 12 pack and then you have 1/or maybe 2 beer remainder in the 12 pack don’t take the 1/or maybe 2 beer remainder with you, leave it as a thank you (you lint-shuffler fuck)
3. why are you yipping about your own book while drunk/loose-lipped at a bar? (you cloud-hound fuck)
4. you didn’t tip the bartender?! whoa. we all noticed (you smart phone blue-haze fuck)
5. you may have visited my town, i might have even asked and glowed and paid you to visit, but that does not make me your babysitter (you donut-slusher/late night bailout caller fuck)
6. that is all, maybe (tonight)
To the clever person introducing the poet: Shut the fuck up. To the poet: Read the poems.
I gave up on new poetry myself thirty years ago, when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens on a hostile world.
Russell Baker
What are the books you need to read between ages 17-22; if not then, never read them at all.
The fact I can write this at a bar is almost like flying cars.
Seated for hours in front of a large glass of beer!
The odor of gin, of tar, of ginger, of leeks and cloves.
Murder the wine merchant!
From one end of the country to another, there exists a freemasonry of alcoholics.
Did you just drop my bishop in your beer?
This place smells of lazy crowds.
Today we should drink four bottles of wine and read the contents of our libraries haphazardly.
Blar.
I arrived from between two of these mountains, I looked at the lake and the moon, and that was it, nothing else happened.
Yo editors, you just solicited a writer’s work. Do you read it with the same eye/mind as the slush pile?
