Rocket Lawn Chairs 3

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A Poem Rife With Fire By Nick Pino

Once, I felt your heat,

melting my frigid shell,

now I feel your blaze,

lighting my prison, hell,

what started as a match,

has become a wildfire,

the woman I once loved,

now the one I least desire,

what once gave me strength,

now burns at my core,

leaving flesh torn asunder,

and my heart on the floor,

but soon you’ll see,

I’ll rise from the ash,

better than I was before,

a phoenix from a match.

Match

By: Leslie Crawford

I

Light a match.

To do what you ask?

Light a candle in church?

Light a fire to warm the house?

Burn away the stench of

A used toilet?

Light a fire,

Eat s’mores?

Light a fire,

BBQ meat?

Set ablaze

A stranger’s

Home when

I’m mad at

Society for

Bein nothin

But the same

Old crap from

The same

Old mouths?

Should I

Set myself

Ablaze now?

No. I won’t.

My death

Won’t do

Anything.

I should

Let my

Inner

Fire burn

And never

Go out?

One of the worst thoughts one can put in a man’s head is a Freudian view of a match. by Matthew Lenox

Image Poem

by Max Levitt

Historically Accurate Photos by Jake Kassnoff

(insert captions—leave on table)

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Left: M

akaroba Sow, Right: Ben Park

Staring at the Match (Late Night Thoughts)

By John Hugar

It’s 3AM

I have to get up in three goddamn hours

To do a job I can’t fucking stand

I’m tired

I’ve been tired for a few years by now

I smoke my last cigarette of the day

And as I light it, I stare at the match

I could end it all right now

Burn this fucking place to the ground

Leave nothing behind

Start everything over again

The cops might look for me

But I’d be halfway to Canada

By the time those lazy bastards tried to find me

Yeah.

Let’s do it.

Right now.

I start to light the match.

I hear a sound coming from the bedroom

Somebody’s crying

I gently tiptoe into the room

Hold my daughter in my arms

Sing her a lullaby

Until she falls back asleep

I stare at the match again

Maybe I’m getting sentimental

But I guess I can handle this for now

“Ignition Failure” By Jake Kassnoff

—Metonymically Meta-anonymous

in Chicago

By Meg Leach

What if none of us can get to heaven?

What if we're stuck in this endless cycle of ham

mer flipping?

Succumbing to intense psychological dangerous madness,

the strange scholars overcoming their reluctance

to feed the aw

ful orifice

that m

aws like

some great

black

throat.

Wildfire.

We all blow out

like little candles in m

ist,

one last smoke filled kiss.

By W

.

By W

.

This issue is brought to you by the letters…

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Rocket Lawn Chairs 3