Reb Livingston is the author of God Damsel (No Tell Books, 2010), Your Ten Favorite Words (Coconut Books, 2007), and co-editor of The Bedside Guide To No Tell Motel anthology series. Her novel, Bombyonder, was published by Bitter Cherry Books in 2014. Her poems have appeared in the Best American Poetry 2006, The American Poetry Review, Action, Yes, Absent, and CUE. She’s also the editor of No Tell Motel and […]
(1907 – 1916) When nothing better bubbled your kiln you looked for entrance. Why not? It was safe for you, the lions only ate women. You saw castle and carousel never shades and shadows. She fastened her belt, endured the scenic railway until everything throbbed riot, licked cotton candy while you twirled the cardboard cone. […]
Wasn’t a leaf that didn’t Smack her face on the way out as she Sped across the green humps There were road signs, sharp turns, Interstates, omissions and a legacy of mock repose All clearly marked so even girls could understand This one kept her gaze on the pretty man’s chin, felt Sing-song wisps streaming […]
Because insomnia is no fun and who’s dark and frilly now? Not me, yes me, oh woe whoah what did we step in this time? Everything was textbook sweetness, t.v. show thrillingness and then, then, fuck you and your then, hairy hands spiral eyeballs, pat and rub, whimsy stick, I saw you peek-a-wink, yes you […]
Maybe I’m impressed by church light. Split pews didn’t part the Red sea –neither did diagonal stripes or rubbing shoulders. When I say “impressed” I’m not talking penis, so put it back in your pocket, those slithering slacks that make me wonder if you’ve started working out. This is about art, being over it and […]
Lovers never were supposed to be our friends. That’s passion’s funny lie. Matrimony had a lover, they took bike rides together, shared an angel sex partner tied her to a cement block and utterly rejected her. My lover never gave a handjob in the muck, hardly. My lover is a sex lamb, incensed and salmon-colored […]
Someone scrawled funny words on our underwear. Our underwear, way too loose on our rascal asses. We must realize ourselves into those big britches, you declare. Love in a hand basket. Hell in my heart. My camisole, yours, evermore. Never have I believed in polygamy more than I do rising this daybreak.
Here’s the love story minus the story. A poor woman, in poor health with poor taste. She shells the vegetables into stereotypes in her long vegetable garden. Poverty was funny and he has a wonderful sense of humor. Pancakes are pancakes and his code for the obscene which is a shame because she still likes […]