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issue 4.01   ::   summer 2014
Scary Bush

Our bravest contributors have shared with us some of their more earnest efforts from the misty past. Scary Bush should not be reviewed while in the process of drinking liquids, and the reader assumes all risk.


Elizabeth Vignali


The Kill.

Benjamin Smith

The comedian chokes on her cigarette.
Her lips are red and her cheeks flush with
each flare of the tip. She
exhumes the audience on her exhale.
She has just received a heckler.
Her hawk eyes scour the culprit.
She is fury; she is wrath;
She conjures weapons beneath her breath
as she scalpels out her victim.
She finds him, faceless, swallowing his tongue
on the back row; he shrinks as
she swells. Her eyes well with vengeance
as she swoops in for the kill.


Jennifer MacBain-Stephens


I also ordered fries

Paige Clark



Chris Deal

We laugh,
the two of us,
over something
something completely
devoid of meaning,

and it is amazing,
to hear
the vibrations
of your soul
in the tones you make.

it is a diversion,
but it makes you smile,
makes your eyes shine,

and when I see that,
it makes something inside me
want to burst.

I think of myself
without you
and it feels
like a disfigurement.

I tell you that the Latin
for blood is sanguine,
that linguistically,
anguish is related
to blood,

and you ask
if that's true.

I think i'm lying
but I can't be sure,

and you laugh.

Confessions of a Shutterbug

Jessie Janeshek



Zakia Khwaja


Rubik's Cube

Jay Sizemore

If I had received you new,
I would have never fucked you up,
I would have kept you pristine,
kept all your colors intact,
kept your mysteries at bay,
but that was not our fate.

I found you forgotten and tossed away,
scrambled and disarranged,
after a myriad of hands and minds
were conceited enough to try
and change you,
for nothing more than
the pleasure of the game
of putting you back together.

But inside your shell
is a complex maze,
a geometric map of shapes
inside shapes folded
into the convolution
of infinite possibilities,
of twists and turns,
of optical illusions
that make the palms sweat
and the teeth grind
against the chaos
of your algebraic skin.

I could never solve you,
but I'll never stop trying,
never stop being fascinated
by your puzzled persuasion,
never be satisfied
with aligning only one
complete color's side.

I know I'll never
make you whole again.

I'd have to cheat,
have to remove your stickers
one by one
while no one watched,
and reapply them
as best I could.
You'd look like new,
but we'd both know the truth,
and somehow that would
just never be good enough.

So, instead, let's accept
each other's flaws,
even though it's tough,
and if you promise
to stay in my hands a while,
I'll promise to never give you up,
to never stop turning you on
by twisting your guts,
to never quit
solving for "why?"
the only equation
of which I could never tire,
and well, for what its worth,
if you don't get bored
with my cumbersome touch,
I hope we both can learn
at least one logarithm
that solves for "us."

Mothers Day Note

Kevin Casey


{Untitled Attempt from Sandy's Poetry Journal, circa 2004}

Sandra Marchetti

Little Car,
Little Car.
Jungle green paint in the plain yellow sun
Grinding your gears
Ignoring the wanton breaks
Hating yourself for missing parking lots on the way in.

Hansel's Harvest

Mary Lou Buschi


Infatuated Recollections

Jamie O’Connell (age 15)

A faded memory from the melancholic whispers,
passed through the wind appearing
in brief s h a d o w s.
Aligned with curtains: to suggest
A non-descriptive beauty, with a
taste of cold air breathed in through the nose;
Handprints of disappearance...
Smoke in the air from a cigarette left burning.

Raindrops of tears reflecting off the windowsill,
Along with the red speckles
of a piercing heart.

July 1967

Risa Denenberg