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This issue features 7 pages.

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from The Depression

I was born with a little pouch on my forehead & I’ve been looking my whole life for something that fits it. In my teen years I’d keep a cigarette in there because I thought that looked cool. In university I’d fill it with whatever was in season. My dog lies on his back on the carpet, chewing a tennis ball. The fan shakes the loose blue sheet. Stepping like a tightrope walker, the stereo sings. I try to think of when I felt most loved in my life. Credo quia absurdum: Richard Gere on a billboard & reports from Syria of rape as torture & a box of VHS tapes in the alley. Nothing fits in my pouch & long gone are the days when I tried to fill it. I want a grilled cheese on life. I want to reach deep into my vagina & pull my scrotum out.
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