America – what a flight of strong beers on this patio brewpub in Boston a stroll from the hostel where we drank until late- night last night. America – what unbelievable novelty! and drinking again now this morning to early afternoon! there's a dog and some girls and some guys around 40, all decked out with beer- guts like tires and sunglasses. the air smells of sawdust and no decoration; that sought after bare- walled industrial style. I love it; this August, this sun like a new polished quarter. and that is a novelty also – being able to say things like that. we have some time to spend – we order for some sandwiches, eat them quite slowly. the bus leaves for Salem at 3. we are going; we intend to see all America – needing to see nothing else. DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has nominated eleven times for Best of the Net,
Stigmata I never predicted my hair would be in the fist of a man who collected pieces of me as souvenirs, had a shrine with my underwear, my childhood videos; never thought I’d live in a sick man’s fantasy— so real that he felt he had to kill it; never imagined a stalker could be handsome, could flinch guiltily when I argued that parents did astonishing work fucking us up; never envisioned a stranger could kidnap an inner child so he becomes Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; never prophesied my wrists up, post-resurrection, bleeding my shames, watching strangers recoil as if before a witch. Corpse Bride In some places, girls are made to marry their rapists. This used to strike me as barbaric, until a man broke into my apartment and raped me. I imagine our marriage bed the same way a rash of suicidal thoughts migrate across my flesh like a flock of crows. What difference would it make? My bed is my coffin now; a corpse bride. If another man were to ever