Edmund Berrigan Quee-Queg This was not the revolution that I envisioned, free to all the lead poisoned, mindful of sodomy in closet desperation. First-class puppies they, though with a sinewy clutch (an unyielding clench). It promised to never wax my staff with earwax. I promised to aggravate it upon request while shoving the chatter of flags in my eye. Lovely masses of untrained propagandists in the debts of our souls. A little green martini eats hope and is painterly. Stuff amends in your ears. Outlaw the wax multiplying in the head-eating ear, wax the envoys. I quadrupled, duty-bound. Let the arts free martinis from the shackles of habit. I have not swum across great theories that in the presence of a loose knot touch me, so I am freer to free martinis and coin-operated puppies. I, with no quintessential climax, am free to form opinions on my own and transfix what needs to be transfixed, and to free gunpowder. So I began my career having never scoffed at leaders and promised to never eat leaders. I, as a two-timer, am not in the question to love or long for thrushes who eat martinis. They survive the true lobotomized call ahead of you. Blank lobotomy puppies envisioned instead, but they shoot themselves in the memorable head, believing they must eat martini leaders. Knowing I promise never to save puppies or hate myself. I promise to sing songs on the backs of grubs on sand dunes and escape the shelter of the amended education of leaders. Propaganda is on the radio while the country is space. Someday I will perform a great feat and lobotomize zombies. I have not, nor will I ever lobotomize capitol punishment. I may or may not be a little green martini. I have or have not the plague. Why posture when you can sing of Tuscan? Blue paint? Man or the barking blue "I" of the next whatever child? I save my affections for mediums who have eaten leftovers on the docks by moonlight. I head down to where all the bashful, puppy- headed hipsters sip espresso and write “Quee-Queg” in their journals. Issue #3