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Is that why you killed me? When you kissed me, Were you really a zombie trying to infect me? Is that why you drove me into this rage comma? Dead to the world, Operating only out of necessity. Killing machine is an understatement. I’m a Goddamned warlord baby. And every zombie I kill looks a little more like me now. So last night, Honey, when I found you, I didn’t smile. Revenge so close I could taste it, But holding you in the crosshairs, Was not enough fulfill my taste for death. I knew what I had to do. Funny thing about zombies, They’re actually pretty friendly when you’re not trying to kill them. They even let me join their club. And now the zombie virus is slowly but surely taking over my brain. The thirst for human flesh consuming my thoughts. Only one priority is higher in my mind And I am about to fulfill them both. Baby girl, Don’t bother running When I ride up With my zombie possy behind me, We roll mad deep, YO! I’ll leave your dickhead lover to my friends, But you, sweetheart, You’re all mine! I will catch you. And when I finally sink my teeth into your flesh, Look into my eyes, I’m the one who is doing this too you, Remember me, This will be the last time I will ever be inside of you. -Travis S

The morning had that Zombie Apocalypse feel to it. Unsuspecting as a schoolboy awaiting his first sex education class, I did not know the horror about to befall me. Then the phone rang. It was you. Calling to tell me You had been cheating on me for nearly six months With the same douche bag you were now leaving me for. My heart died that day, Every inch of my flesh went cold, I walked, dead, into the living room, Where I found the only salvation I could have had at that moment Darling, You picked the wrong day to mess with this hombre. Because my initial feelings about the morning were anything but farfetched. The news was reporting Zombie like viruses spreading across all seven continents. But my end of days was only beginning. Baby, Your cruelty sparked an idea And that day that I birthed the only child we would ever have: My plan for revenge. I armed my self to the teeth With AK-47’s, machetes, and chainsaws. Threw away that engagement ring I bought you, And set out amongst the zombie hoards to find you. I’ve slaughtered hundreds, If not thousands, If not millions Of those undead fucks, Each one of them with a face that looked surprisingly like yours. I’ve been through Hell just so I can bring it to your doorstep. I’ve pummeled zombie skulls as hard as I once loved you. Sweetie pie, When I came in your face Did it feel like a shotgun blast to an undead skull?

Introduction Travis and Roost wrote this: *Cue the James Cameron Terminator opening credits music, the precursor to industrial techno ish. *& Imagine a raspy cowboy voice 2013: What’s left of the human race is a scattered battered shadow of what it once was. The ancient Mayan prophecy reared it’s nasty head and in December of last year and brought us the end of days. Those apathetic to the warning signs were the first to be laid to waste. Those who kept their wits about them survived for a while and make shift governments formed out of men and rubble in an attempt to lead the survivors, only to be caught by the cyborgs and eliminated…how did the Mayans predict cyborgs? I mean really?… Either way, human kind was not as it had been. Man, woman, and child went underground and their history almost completely vanished from the face of the Earth….almost. Pockets of voices sprung up from beneath, hidden from the iron death love of the cyborgs. Leaving traces of the world, they once knew, the voices told of life before in hopes of reaching anyone still alive…and able…to read. *End terminator music *fireworks Imaginations are awesome aren’t they. Special thanks to: Shaggy, Helen, Whiskey, Toothpicks,, Diamond, Amanda Flores, Rooster, Zombies, Travis S, the Mayans, Nicholas Hernandez and Shasparay Marcelete Lighteard

Monsters are real Night Night Mamma tucks me in tight to make sure I don’t escape the covers Jaja there’s no such thing as monsters is what she said, But I didn’t need to look in the closet to know what was out there because walls are too, paper thin not to hear ‘’Nakupenda,’’, l love you she said and she was gone, To do the night step with my older brothers, And that was the last time I saw her, My only reassurance was the thunder of the drums like heart beats she would dance there Kicking up black dirt with swaying feet and a swinging skirt The men would chase her Amatia Akita Amatia Akita The chant was of celebration, So I could only think I was safe I thought the drums would never die, And I would never leave these sheets so I slept Amatia Amatia Akita Akita Monsters can stop heart beats like, Drums Like brothers, Like my mother…. In Africa some soldiers don’t save you just as many are shameless A shackle of a hand grips my neck tightly, A dark and familiar face greets me And pulls me from a cocoon of memories, A mother Neighbors A village And burns them all

Pull those arrows from the circle and put em’ single-file ‘cause, comrades, It’s time to move forward. The gods have broken their watches, and I stole their little screwdrivers. What say yooouu, time? Future Einsteins, martyrs, and presidents slip Slightly outside the lines with their favorite colored crayons—That’s US! Writing a new story. And soon, our’s, her’s, and history will have no palette, (or lines for that matter) And activity book instructions will demand us, instead, to disconnect the dots; be Big Bang backwards, let’s revert to Pangea. We are not stragglers for breaking bread with generations past; yes, perhaps We’re still coming around mountains, but I can assure you We’re going somewhere.

-Amanda Flores

Ahh— Im shot I cover myself in the Forrest Making bed out of dirt and brown leaves death is a gift I am ready to receive Because you can’t be dirty in heaven And I know my mamas dancing there kicking up black dirt with saying feet and a swinging skirt and I’ll follow her without fear because monster can’t follow you once there’s no pulse I guntha hey I miss my home I’m goanna see mamma Night night Jaja was killed trying to escape the lords resistance army. Joseph Kony has systematically enslaved thousands of children to kill for his cause. This is wrong and Jaja went night night trusting that one day they'd put joseph kony's lights out because monsters like this deserve to die and we the people can help stop him.

-Shasparay Marcelete Lighteard

Played flashlight tag with drunken headlights Didn’t move out of the way in hopes that they might not see you in timeWanted an UN-expected emergency If only you could emerge and see that it wasn’t time for you But you spent your days, fingers interlocked with the hands of a clock that had yet to chime for you; you weren’t happy. It was like you held a grudge with life for keeping you here this damn long. And I wondered If you could stand at the edges of rooftops, gaze out over the city, and for once be in awe of the view instead of wondering the whole time what the ground would feel like from up here. I can’t count the number of nights I spent talking you down from the ledges of your own self-pity. I knew you would never jump, but god damn it you prayed for winds strong enough to push you over. Do you know that I still worry about you? And every day that goes by that I don’t hear from you I wonder if I ever will again. Do you know… That I’ve never been this scared before. I understand that you’re probably never going to read this And it bothers me that these words most likely won’t make it to your ears, But I’m gonna keep saying it Just in case. Don’t live your life waiting for Death. Sweetheart, Death is already waiting for you, so make her wait. Remember, You said you wanted it to be an accident anyways. -Diamond

Shoot a gun or two and eat the empty shells for lunch. There is a history in your teeth now, and we have no toothpicks here. (Don’t take it literarily; I haven’t written it down yet.) And I don’t have a day job, so don’t ask me to keep it. We have no toothpicks here. We are astronauts with microphones who envy the gods, Alleged prophets playing billiards with rocks no longer Deemed planets in hopes to become stars ourselves. But lately, I’ve learned that if we want to become them, first, We’ve got to move them! And I feel like I’ve been here before. I Swear we’ve been here before: I’m on my Second thought, ya’ll, But I don’t know for how long. According to this hand, I shoulda long gone moved on To better things (which I’ve been told are to come). No longer will we wail, hail tongues full of doubt, But become a pseudo-Oedipus-- just to cross it out. Come around the mountain when you come, if you be generic, or Sound YAWPS and beat on hillsides; reinvent the esoteric. There’s a Whitman in your veins--bite your wrists for dinner. We have no toothpicks here. Only epigones and egotistic tongues learned better. Contemplate the math behind the stars-- if it’s cold, then wear a sweater. Case aaand point! Stealthy parables in the subtext of a simple lesson. Your palms sport the scars that taught you not to burn again. Sad, that it’s so universal, ‘Cause we all got the pleasure of a warning that That thing is hot, don’t be playing with it, SON! Let’s you and I make like bad environmentalists and break The cycle. Yeah, break cycles like dance! We’ll

March they say March and we do or we die They take away little boys toys and give them guns Hoping that because of their naivety that they’ll Play with them But it’s not their fault If you teach them young that’s really all they know They strip us girls of dignity and pride and all it took was for strangers to rip off our clothing until we know our place Sex slaves Play toys Rewards for loyalty Now I can never really sleep at night when I had a home Mamma told me not to go to bed dirty But now this filth is under my skin I guntha hey… I miss my home I miss mamma And then that same face calls to me and now I remember A village friend But that was before Before we all watched him kill his parents in tears His only reason was that they would kill them anyway. And for him to spare the pain of torture Pulled the trigger His name is Monday. He gives me a gun and tells me to run and that he is sorry But he won’t come with me A good toy solider for Joseph Kony will never be safe So when the night is darkest I run, Faster . Faster. Faster. My heart beat and my feet go hand and hand Amita Akita Amatia Akaita

Suicide Note You said you wanted your death to be an accident. Suicide notes written in sleepless nights, and silent cries on the backsides of pillows you never flipped over. Life became the only reason you stayed sober, because you knew as well as I did, given the wrong circumstance that half bottle of liquid courage you kept hidden in the back of your freezer may be the last thing you ever tasted so being wasted was not an option. You never dared take Comfort in the Southern hospitality bottles offered; wouldn’t allow yourself to sink so low as to see eye to eye with own your self-esteem, no Shoulders back Chin up Eyes forward, you marched with your head held high enough to see out of the 6 x 6 foot hole you dug yourself into even if you had to stand on your tip toes some days. We realized early on that phone lines weren’t made strong enough to hold your weight, so you called every night and I remember it like it was yesterday. Ringtones echoed off Cheshire grins, but the moon was the only thing smiling some nights We whispered wishes into stardust, but the stars must not have heard us because this time… It was 2 am, faded Reeboks kissed highway pavement with less hesitance than an awkward first date. You paced, as if being called back and forth by street side shoulders, like “Red Rover, Red Rover, send self-destruction right over. And over. And over. And over. You said you wanted your death to be an accident;

I got my spot, It’s a bar called “Southern Nights” Nestled on the awkward side of the train tracks, next door to the flower shop, Across from the Cactus Motel, Nestled in an awkward spot in a shitty ass town… Now it costs a dollar to get in and be a member Just remember they’re gonna try selling that 75 cent piss warm chango, pass off as Budweiser, Come on in… Now if you get there early you’ll see the class of 97, they’ve been there since two, And in a little while 98 and 99 will bounce in like know-it-alls, 97 looks at them like freshman, And doesn’t even bother of giving 2000 the time of day, And the real old timers, they tumbleweed in and around Southern Nights Through out the hours and neon lights, bag piping about something or another, The waitresses, They come in around 7 and they’re as dressed to kill as they’ll ever be, Because they can’t wait ‘till 03 comes so they can discuss life And I swear, they dish out these drinks to the patrons of Southern Nights, Knowing like blind faith, hoping, that this is only a pit stop before they really get going, They’re all too stuck in their ways, And they keep dreaming, and drinking, and dreamking that pain away And see if I go, I show around 10, way after my buddies from 01 showed up, Right around the time 97 is in a stupor, 98/99 are on the verge of tears, And 2000 is a whole decade worth of pissed off, 01 looks at me like where the hell have you been,

2000 looks at me like: what, you think you’re better than us? 98/99 don’t remember me but they want to be friends, Drunk friends, The kind that pat you on the back way too much, The kind that’ll buy you a round, cause you pick ‘em up while they’re gettin down They’re gonna run wild with heyday war stories until 97 gets sick and walks out. This is the Southern Nights I know, Where well wishers wish the shit outta wishing wells Because there ain’t no way out this bar that doesn’t end with at least some of your pride hurt, When you realize, there is a little bit more of you in these people than you’d like to admit, Where they drink piss warm chango like it’s brand new, Where all they need to survive is a watered down imagination and an excuse, Where they crank out responses to questions through smoke and billiard ball cracks Like broken vending machines, Because like them, you’re not getting back for all you put in, in this town, They restlessly mumble, They moan when the piss warm chango goes from 75 cents to a dollar 75 at 9 And I can only take so much, like drinking Big Red When that creame soda begins to stick to my teeth Making me feel raunchy, Cause we’re all guilty of dreamking too much, I got a spot called Southern Nights and it’s in an awkward spot, But damn if they haven’t kick the lid off that joker once or twice, When the past they live in comes alive…sometimes.

When the old dogs comes back like Pet Semitary, But this is our town’s seminary, Where beers and cocktails get dished out like class reunion hugs, Where every soul in this joint was vandalized by reality, Where we could all run a razor to our throats And the bloodshed wouldn’t change the fact that the NEXT generation Will walk past that door one day, Will shell out a buck to be recognized in this fucking place, And I wish this place wasn’t such a downer, Like I wish that the wishing wells they wish in weren’t as stale as the piss warm chango, Like I wish they would see the community in this room through all the people, They hang on to nanoseconds now… ’Cause the glory years went by to fast… And their not quite sure what vehicle brought them here, But damn sure it’s on “e”… Fuck it… Buy ‘em a round… Let ‘em keep drinking, and dreaming, and dreamking.



New chapbook for Puro Slam

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