Lit Mag Roundup Scavenger Hunt: “77 cents will not do the bald eagle any good”
If we decided that the accent of a high dose of Vitamin D sounds like a frantic and fascinated British person, today’s rain would be the opposite of a tennis announcer. But it’s OK because I’ve got some out-of-town friends in town. Last night we got pizza from Hot Lips and watched The Wire. This was on an iMac we surrounded with candles. Baltimore infrastructure drama meets seance circle. Mosquitoes in February. Mug from the Mattress Factory. Cowboy boot with a bird doo stain.
If the rain and the snow has you inside and napping after breakfast and you’ve already seen The Wire, I recommend this week’s online literary magazine roundup! Just like last week, you can win a free book by reading through these magazines. Congrats to last week’s winner Rebekah Hewitt, who will be getting a copy of Emily Kendal Frey’s Sorrow Arrow from SPD. Hurray Rebekah!
Here are the rules for the scavenger hunt:
Read these magazine issue recaps, which are collaged together from things in pieces that appear in the magazine. The first person to comment on the post with the origins of at least 3 of the lines/images/chunks will win a free book of their choice from Small Press Distribution, courtesy of Real Pants: Mike’s Bank Account division.
Without further ado, the magazines!
Let’s agree that a birdfeast is a feast for birds and not a feast of birds. Then we can agree on other things, like how fear has a mothering instinct, too. The field is a silent trick. Go ahead and put the grass back in your mouth and stitch the dress into yourself. Scan the snow for objects of love and wonder. Read Birdfeast 11.
Your phantom limb doesn’t decide whether the idea of phantom limbs are sad or not. That’s on you. But you’re too busy gathering speeding tickets like pine cones. Going off and pierceing allergic clouds with silver arrows. No matter how much time you want, the young yellow noon brings a need. The federal government permits biologists to shoot barred owls, and sometimes you feel so helpless until you read Phantom Limb 12.
So many interruptions, but not enough ruptures. So why not both? All the better for all the thieves with goatees and epaulets. A night for dressing up like Alicia Keys. The temple of deformations. A curl was rarely finite. Your name is not wearing makeup, and your lima beans are making you cough. Luckily there is a small room where you are allowed to love each other in private, and there is Interrupture 13.
According to their arrangers, the ghostwriters have been “stuck between worlds.” They still have “metaphysical plasma clinging to [their] hair.” Why am I “using quotation marks now, when I hadn’t been before?” I’m not sure. But maybe that’s a question I could approach the ghostwriters with, as they have been answering a lot of questions. They know what’s on TV: a beheaded belly dancer whose black hair and hips crushed their heart like an old country song. They’re stuffing the socks of the man who left with unpaid medical bills. One of the six types of people has a chunky broach. Former Intercontinental Champion Tito Santana (real name, Merced Solis) once wrestled under the name Richard Blood. Was he a ghostwriter? Only you can find out, and only by reading the encircled questions of Ghostwriters of Delphi Issue Two.
Sometimes you have to put together IKEA furniture, but someone has to design those IKEA furniture instructions all the time. Since the beginning of time? Well, in a recursive experience, is to count to give an account? Does the flash get slick in the splashy dark by its own skill of lighthouse? Look, forget it. 77 cents will not do the bald eagle any good. There’s nothing better than cotton yukatas during the summer. You bring your research questions and A Perimeter gives you the right lines.
The way you really know a season has started is when the sixth finch comes flying over it. It flies over the soft Russian art of your legs. It flies over the act of making love to a thousand wolves in a single day. Instead of alive, it is an apology. They’re grinding a tree out there. You will always play that tree. But like, a very convincing tree. Santa’s dead in the parking lot, but the heavy hitting Sixth Finch has made it all the way to Winter 2015.
What was Meg Ryan’s theme in the 90s? I don’t know either, but this issue of 90s Meg Ryan has the theme of “The Real-World Problems We Face.” You can listen to them. Some people they know suffer their own clouds. They pour expensive tequila over the open flames. Everybody seems to know that they can click together. Snacks change their minds. You ARE a janitor’s son. The porchswing nail bends to accommodate its meddle. First, order zebra and antelope stew, and then read 90s Meg Ryan.
Last but not least is the blood of trees on your lips. Your native language walks like a lost old man in a fur coat. Keep whittling until you cannot whittle anymore. This usually happens after the 29th pill. If there’s a little town called Mercedes, it might be all dirt roads and well water. Or salt and flesh and oranges. Some parks need more pond. Their origin stories lodged in a horizon of sense. Check out the mariposa crown, you who are partially the shorelines of all great places. The subject is messy, and that’s why we have Cyberhex.
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