By: Franklin Bruno

In any job that must be fun there is an element of dun.

By: Franklin Bruno

Mezzotint badonkadonk, rolling a cocktail cherry in Motrin, crushed up coke-fine.

By: James Parker

“The churned sheets were a vortex/and there could be no more sex/because of the pain in my cortex.”

By: Franklin Bruno

Don’t fire until you can see your reflection in the robot’s crotchplate.

By: Franklin Bruno

The frenemy of my frenemy is my frenemy.

By: Franklin Bruno

Earning your advanced degree in snackroeconomics.

By: Franklin Bruno

The part I love: “I hate this part.”

By: Franklin Bruno

Wears bowling shirt, has never bowled. Streaks in the aging filmmaker’s hair.

By: Franklin Bruno

Spin of the frictionless cardstock chore wheel

By: Franklin Bruno

Work-shirted poli-sci prof hosts three-hour bluegrass podcast.

By: James Parker

“These spatterings, these gory scatterings,/are the remains of my Mrs.”

By: James Parker

“Her head fills with words/which curdle into curds/which turdle into turds.”

By: James Parker

“Who’s onscreen? Pull him up. It’s Jason Bourne.”

By: James Parker

“I see you with your crossbow cocked,/and your intellect murderously locked.”

By: James Parker

“You said the wrong/right thing and his face went stony”