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Enjoy, and Viva La Toucan

Laura, Toucan Editrice

Friday, August 5, 2011

Poem of the Week, III City, Michael Cluff, and The Reopening of Submissions

GOOD NEWS! Submissions have reopened and Issue 12 is now in stores (except for the closed ShopColumbia). And contributor copies are getting mailed as we speak! Let's hear a collective YEAH!

We truly apologize for these delays. To be perfectly frank, we probably need a few lessons in time management. We also need a few less things to do with our time. We hope you forgive our youthful missteps, but let us assure you that both Liz and Laura are responsible gals, and are constantly berating themselves when they know things back at the Toucan Ranch are being put off (you didn't know we had a ranch, did you? Well, ranch land is hard to come by here in Chicagoland, but we manage. And as you might guess, ranching is a heckuva lotta work. Gotta fence in those keel-bills.). NOT that this is ANY excuse, but in addition to working two jobs and stealing smooches on the side, Editrice Liz recently started an internship. Yes, we know she is insane, but if spiritual art is anywhere remotely near your bag (Liz is still trying feverently to jam it into her frog purse), you should check this out.

So thank you all for your patience as we try to sort out our lives, develop our resumes, and score tickets to Paul McCartney concerts. weren't supposed to know that. That didn't look very responsible of us. It WAS however, the best money either Editrice ever spent. So there.

Oh right, don't we need a poem? Enjoy this offering by our super-contributor Michael Cluff, while the real Toucan Editrices go gallivanting away around Chicago, listening to pagan music acts. No, just kidding: Liz is about to watch her kitchen floor. It really needs it. Really.

Ill City

by Michael Cluff

Here I am
dressed like
a preppy
gone to extreme,
blue/white saddle shoes
blue blazer and light blue dress shirt
beige pleated slacks,
navy blue socks.

just to avoid
the supervisor's eye
of cold comfort
and disapproval.

The real me
is atop
the hill with jacarandas
pepper trees
and old WW II era bunkers
where illicity
occurs quite naturally.

An ercued crane
sails by
having a whopping
grand time.

The yellow and blue
subtle patterned tie
holds me down
a gravity both earth
and fabric
unflinchingly evoke
to all
but what
goes on inside
in spite of Newton
and Archimedes.

1 comment:

  1. "old WW II era bunkers / where illicity / occurs quite naturally"

    That is fucking awesome.