still raining outside

        Standing in the lobby, he wondered what the hell he was doing. He felt ridiculous. Embarrassed. How did things get so bad?
        He could never tell his family about this. Or his friends for that matter. What would they say if they saw him here – wearing a cheap suit in a cheap hotel, soaking wet and twirling his wedding ring around his sweaty palms.
        He could see her from where he stood. She was sitting alone at a round cocktail table, framed by the oak door that lead to the hotel bar. He thought she looked pretty, thoughtlessly stirring a red straw around the edge of her cocktail glass. The feeling of discomfiture that overcastted his thoughts suddenly faded. Without realizing it, he had already passed through the bar door, walking towards her.
        She looked up at him as he arrived at the table. Up close, he could see that she had put a considerable amount of time sculpting herself for the evening: meticulously applied rouge to highlight her narrow cheekbones, dark charcoal eye shadow – soft and bridal. Her skin was translucent, her lips the shade of strawberries. Realizing that he had already been standing above her in lumbering silence for quite some time, he said the first thing that came to him: “Hello.”
        “Hello,” she said, her voice soft and cool, with a hint of a European accent he couldn’t quite place.
       “My name is Michael.”
       “Nice to meet you Michael,” she said, extending a manicured hand, “I’m Sofia. Please, sit down. Did you forget your umbrella at home?”
        He ordered her a drink, surprised when she requested Stoli on the rocks with extra olives. He watched her lips move as she told him about herself (grew up in Denmark, favorite actor is John Wayne, avid swimmer, never got her drivers license). As she spoke, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts travel far away to someplace darker – someplace deprecating.
       He began to recognize his distaste for himself, for her, for the hotel, and for everything that had lead the both of them to this fraudulent moment. He ordered them another round of drinks.
       After all the chairs had been stacked up on the tables around him, he asked her, “Would you like to come up to my room?” She nodded.
       A part of him wished that she had said no – that this whole thing could have ended right then and there. He was drunk, tired, and didn’t have the energy to continue this charade.
        It was in the elevator when he asked, “When did you start drinking Stoli on the rocks?”
        After a few brief moments of silence, she began sobbing uncontrollably. He turned to look at her, mascara running down her cheeks, pressed up against the elevator mirror.
        “I’m sorry, Kate,” he said as the elevator doors opened.
        “It’s Sofia, not Kate,” she whimpered, walking past him and down the hallway.
         He debated whether or not he should stay in the elevator, letting the doors close around him, watching her walk away. He stepped out and followed behind her.
         “You know, you could have at least tried,” she said in her thick Southern accent, pacing towards the room at the end of the hall, “You didn’t even take off your ring.”
         She opened the door to the room, silhouetted by pink and green neon lights filtering in through the open window. It was still raining outside.
         He closed the door behind him as she threw herself down on the bed.
         “Kate, I’m sorry. It just didn’t feel right to me. The whole thing didn’t feel-“
         “It wasn’t suppose to feel right,” she said, gazing out the glowing neon window, “It was suppose to feel new. It was suppose to feel exciting, like how it was when we first met.”
          He stood there silently looking down at the carpet, his hands in his pockets. “It’s over, isn’t it, Will?” she said, looking up at him.
Their eyes locked in a moment of earnestness that neither had felt in years. He wanted to embrace her, but was unable to find the strength to do so.

Posted in Bad Prose, Eric HEHR | No Comments »


Even before what happened, everybody knew that they were evil girls. Weird girls. They never washed their hair people said and they always wore the same thing and they smelled like wet paper. Corby Fletcher said he saw Sadie once at four in the morning on the football field lighting candles naked and touching herself on the fifty yard line. They used to cut their wrists I heard. And worship the devil. Once in gym class, Francine bled in the pool and they had to close it down for a week.

My brother was a great man — a brave man and he went to high school with those girls. He said he smiled at them in the hallway because he felt sorry for them and didn’t think that they were so bad. He said one of them was even pretty and that once she had passed him a flirtatious note in study hall but that he got nervous and didn’t respond and the next day she ignored him in the hall and that was that. He said things like that happened in high school all the time and that when I was older I’d understand.

People called them the devils or the spooks or the weirdos but my brother never did.

They killed 18 people and wrote fuck on the lockers with blood and then put three bullets in their heads. Bang bang bang. Someone wrote a song about in the eighties and it was a hit. They made a movie about them too but it was a cheesy one with bad stuff and corny dialogue. It was called Teen-Age Sacrifice. It played on Lifetime. Phoebe Cates was Sadie and Mia Sara was Piper and Claudia Wells was Francine. My brother was played by Judd Nelson. In the scene where he dies, my mom cried. I remember. She said Mr. Nelson got Phil down perfect. So handsome, she said. Sometimes in my memories of Phil, I see Judd Nelson. There are only a few thing that I remember, but they are all warm and good things.

There’s a plaque up at the school now. It has all 21 names — including the killers. This was controversial at the time, but now I see it’s only fair. They were just poor babies too.


Posted in Bad Prose, Eddie O'KEEFE | No Comments »



This is a poem about a man named Pep

That’s a funny name
It means Joe, he tells me
10 years after I meet the guy
You’re no Joe.
The kid down the street who has too much pizza in his braces
That guy’s a Joe
You with the funny dancing and the bad puns and the Mazda Miata
You ain’t no Joe

Remember that time
In the other room
right there
In this church?
When I set that waxy piece of paper on fire and threw it in your lap
While the whole church was singing holy night on christmas eve?
That was cool.

Or the time I waited
for a half an hour
under your bed
so I could grab your ankles and scare the shit out of you?
That was cool too.

The mismatching socks thing
Come on
Still doing that?

Mom likes to yell at you a lot
It’s OK
She likes to yell at me a lot too
You seem to handle it better
Maybe I’m learning something?

Once upon a time
My first boss assumed you were my grandfather
Fuck you, I thought
To my boss
Ya lazy hack with your bad haircut
I was fired from that job
But you didn’t care
And why would you?
You’re the coolest, hippest guy I know
And the coolest, hippest guy I know
Certainly does not care when his stepson gets fired from a frozen custard shop
There’s no future in that anyway

You always say you’re a pessimist
But you also say you’re humble
And that that’s important
I’m pretty sure
you’re just being humble
About being an optimist

Busted, dude


Posted in Bad Poetry, Ryland McINTYRE | No Comments »


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I tried writing something interesting here but my girlfriend and her friends are talking in the other room and I can’t really concentrate and my brain feels like mushy spicy tuna and I don’t have much to say. EO

Posted in Eddie O'KEEFE, Original Photography | No Comments »


Sometimes when a kid
in your 7th grade
class of 1987 dies
in an above ground pool
in the middle of Missouri
your school has an assembly
to warn about dangers
that come with
above-ground pool swimming
even though getting stuck
in the rungs
of the pool ladder
as the air escapes from your lungs
is not technically listed
as a danger.

                 No running
                                   No cannon balls
                                                    Into the nylon cover

And sometimes when a 7th grade
boy dies in your pool
your parents get divorced
and you move to Topeka
with your mom
and your last name
changes to Bommarito
while your dad,
name unchanged,
moves to Branson.

                 No running
                                   No cannon balls
                                                    Into the nylon cover

And sometimes when you see
a 7th grade pal die
above ground in water
people keep telling you
it’s not your fault
which may have led to
your 1992 breakdown
in the bathroom
of the YMCA in Lawrence
during which you
couldn’t help but note
how you accidentally knelt
in a pool of urine
which leads you
to unceremoniously denounce
for daring your dead 7th grade friend
to weave through
the ladder
in the first place.

                 No running
                                   No cannon balls
                                                    Into the nylon cover

Gabriel YOUNES

Posted in Bad Poetry, Gabriel YOUNES | No Comments »


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Screen Shot 2015-01-11 at 6.12.16 PM

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The Who – Tommy, Can You Hear Me?
Paul McCartney – Tragedy
Rick Nelson – Lonesome Town
Alex G – After Ur Gone
Iggy Pop – Tell Me A Story
Native America – Naturally Lazy
Ariel Pink – Lipstick
Badfinger – Midnight Caller
Takuro Yoshida – I Live On
Cass McCombs – Dream Come True Girl
The Caretaker – Camaraderie At Arms Length

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When I die
scatter my ashes at Yosemite
So I can seep into the soil
run wild with the Merced
grow tall with the pines
and remain forever

and free

Let me be reborn from the falls
as a new thing
for I will find my way back
to the mist
and the granite
and the wonder

to that impossible place


over and over again


Posted in Bad Poetry, Eddie O'KEEFE | 2 Comments »


It’s a cold, Sunday in LA,
85 degrees and sunny
not a cloud in the sky.

I walk to my car to complete a circle,
I know quite well.
I turn the key, start the engine,
and tune the radio to Chicago.

I listen for the sounds I once knew
(or at least thought I knew).
I hear the confusion of adolescence,
the comfort of familiarity and begin
to wonder why I ever left.

A stop sign approaches, I come to a grinding halt.
I turn the station to another station,
to another city and continue to drive.


Posted in Bad Poetry, Mike PARGAS | No Comments »

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