Modern Haiku's new issue is a wonder. I was floored by the first one, and fell in love with two others. They're haikus -- they take seconds to read, and will fill your mind with gorgeous images. At least one will make you smile (it's got a goat!).
And these are the winners of the annual Robert Spiess award. I enjoyed them, and especially appreciated the judges' analysis below each entry. It was also a reminder that what I may like best is not always what others feel is "best," and that bit of insight is something I need to keep in mind on a nearly daily basis.
Russell Strier has two clever pieces at sleep.snort.fuck: Letter to Yang Chu and Letter From Greasy Grass. Clever, original, fresh, sharp, and possibly hallucinatory.
When you first start communicating with someone via email, it always begins so politely. "Katherine, I extend my compliments on your heaving bosoms, so large. Might I also add..." and you sign, "Best, Fogarty," or "Regards, Juliette." "Cheers! Aubrey." "Yours in titillation, Bob." And so on. Down the road, you begin leaving off the address. Surely they know this email is for them and that you know their name. How novel. Perhaps you still leave off with Cheers! Or TTFN! Or "When are you gonna let me fuck your tits? I mean, seriously." Later on, the carefully composed emails devolve into slang and run-on sentences and a variety of swear words. "God damn it. I had the day from hell. Luckily, you were wearing that tight baby pink sweater that I can almost see your bra through. If you ever take to wearing them little nipple daisies, I'll kill myself. When are you gonna let me fuck them? I mean, come on. I told you I'd lick it up afterwards." When manners erode into stalking, you know you've got something special. Now you are beyond "Dear Layla," and far into PPO territory. And that is how you know you have a special relationship.
I am too lazy to do a drawing for this, but you can imagine what a piece of art it would've been.