Wings
Wings is the secret formula of the sages. It is now sold in pill form for a limited time only. Wings eliminates all signs and symptoms of aging in a matter of weeks and offers the hidden secrets of enlightenment. Wings can be yours for just $99.99 a bottle. Never before has Wings been on the market. Never again will it be available at such a bargain price. Don’t miss this exclusive offer.
Directions:
To reach optimal results, take one pill every morning and two before bedtime for seven days.
If you miss a dose, make it up as soon as possible. After one week, to increase potency, to take 3 or 4 pills daily. If you miss 2 doses, double your dosage for 2 days. To make up for lost time, you may take up to 6 to 8 pills. After two weeks you may experience the sensation of tingling. Tingling will begin with your fingers and toes and the tips of your nose. Tingling is a sign that your body is beginning to absorb quickly. It is a sign you may up your dosage to 14 pills per day.
You will then begin to feel more alive. In order to feel more and more alive, you must consume 28 pills a day. (More pills can be taken as needed.) Feeling alive is desirable. Be sure to welcome all the sensations of life. Do not worry if you experience minor side effects which include genital burning, blurred vision, nausea and occasional dizziness. Such symptoms occur only rarely and are insignificant. After 31 days you may take a bottle a day. You will now feel like a race horse bursting from the starting gate every second. You will burst again and again. You will feel you are going crazy, but you are, at last, one of the few sane beings alive. All around you people are living in unburst bubbles, doing everything they can to stay unburst. But you will have no choice but to keep bursting. There is no end to how much you can burst and what you are bursting with. Bursting will become your new way of life. You will be bursting with bursting. You will then need to consume two bottles a day. Two bottles a day will take you to your destiny, the destiny for which there are no words, for the burst can not speak to the unburst of that which is burst, and of that which is not only burst but which is continuing to burst in an ever-bursting bursting of bursting, and a bursting of bursting of the ever-lasting bursting of bursting, for there is no bursting quite like it.
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Reading for a Book Contest
Everyone knows it's not easy to fall in love. You can't just go out in the streets and shout, You.
You look like a nice guy. How about a turn in the sack? And expect he'll be just the right fit. A one-size-fits-all kind of guy. (There are so few out there. Have you noticed?) But that's exactly what I do. And so many things go wrong. How can I explain?
The first one I meet is one of those women who looks so nice. I think to myself, I've lucked out, and, so soon. Before I know it, she's taking me to her room, dimming the lights. I can almost taste her lips when she starts talking without pausing for breath. She talks all night. She wants to tell me everything about her life and act it out, too, showing off the many ghosts of her past. (Don't you hate a woman who talks in bed?) It's like sleeping in an aviary, her sweet voice filling my night.
The second is this guy who has never been laid. But just looking at him, I know one day he'll be great. (I'm always psychic about a man's future sex life.) He'll be a regular Napoleon in bed. (And it's not true what they said about Napoleon's penis, by the way.) But tonight this man is so eager, he hasn't even bothered to put his body on right. He has his hands in his eye sockets, his shoes on his ears, and a penis stuck to the back of his head. I want to shout look in the mirror for Christ's sake. But instead I admire his body parts. Oh yes, I want to say. Yes, yes, yes! But I don't.
The third is one of those real poets. You know the type. Even in bed I can picture him at the podium, manuscript and water glass in hand. He's the guy who thinks about having sex so much, he has theoretical sex. And there are just so many theories to consider. There's Hegelian sex with its theses, antitheses, syntheses. Pascalian sex: he had it once with a god, and it has never been the same since. Or Plato's sex. Of course Plato never had sex. But his shadow did.
It's only when I'm ready to give up that I notice the woman in the corner wearing a plain black dress. (Why do poets always where those little black gowns with pumps fishnetsm too?) She has such nice legs, I think. And soon I realize she's wearing nothing underneath. I’m opening her slowly, just hoping she feels as good on the inside as she looks on the surface. It's always such a wonderful relief to find a winner in end. To say please and ah and mmmmm. To breathe deep and relax at last.
Nin Andrews is the editor of a book of translations of the French poet Henri Michaux entitled Someone Wants to Steal My Name from Cleveland State University Press. She is also the author of several books including The Book of Orgasms, Why They Grow Wings and Midlife Crisis with Dick and Jane. Her book, Sleeping with Houdini, was published by BOA Editions in 2007. Her chapbook, Dear Professor, Do You Live in a Vacuum, was also published in 2007 by Subito Press. Her next books, Southern Comfort, is forthcoming from CavanKerry Press.