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LET’S BANISH THE WINTER BLUES: 8 songs to cure your winter blues!
November 6, 2018
November 9, 2018

Listen to Case # 4167 d, e, f, g


Case # 4167 (d)

  Dear Rory,

 I know you are tied up. Here is a headline for you, as you sink into a morphine haze.


Solace #2: Girl citizens got out alive without being burned: a spark, an after glow, an all consuming flesh eating fire of melty eyeballs and hearts.

 It’s a solace Rory, for the rest of us.


Case # 4167 (e)


Dear Rory,

 I cried for you.

 I know you remember business casual,

shag carpet, but it wasn’t carpet,


it was ink suffocating you through nostrils

and throat


a roaring from

the inside out.



Case # 4167 (f)


Dear Rory,


There is still love.


He used the word trounce.

all Hybrid Blue’s love that word


the “t” and “r” similar to their word for deep feeling:

and the place of lions: Trafalgar.


he was gray scissor scarf and height

impossible, army boots, size 52


he doesn’t

whistle blue grass tentativeness


when he’s hunting


grabs my fingerprints tries to imprint

them onto his Adam’s apple


compresses my lips on the stairs

kissing my orange and indigo


scans my ponytail for microchips


the over-sized John Lennon t shirt

he peeled off that one time


outside the bottle rocket bucket

of sound and grizzle


of removing guts with a smoldering shovel

so they don’t multiply


bury them in compost gardens

in fast food compartment dumpsters


a bell rings on repeat

calls us back to the POD


but what if another Jennifer walks through

the paper Mache door Rory?


carrying two heads

better than me


that morning in the snow:

my me time forgotten




Case # 4167 (g)

 Dear Rory,

 This is your account:

 “Rory” was grabbed, pulled into an abandoned office supply store. Held down against loose leaf and hard white printer plastic. He said before he would shut up forever, that hands came out from a forehead. The tiny sucking fingertips touched his lips, the fingers that weren’t fingers. The electric shocks / memories jangled in his brain like pebbles / his throat closed up and then pumping breath and tightness upward and out, like his body channeled a high tech company plunger, a light dispenser for five cents a second, a mechanical torso convulsing, limbs like wet newspaper, brain blackened with squid ink a coffee bath overnight. A darkness in ear caverns, the light blinking : a human ornament.


Jennifer MacBain-Stephens lives in Midwest and is the author of four full length poetry collections: “Your Best Asset is a White Lace Dress,” (Yellow Chair Press, 2016) “The Messenger is Already Dead,” (Stalking Horse Press, 2017,) “We’re Going to Need a Higher Fence,” tied for first place in the 2017 Lit Fest Book Competition, and “The Vitamix and the Murder of Crows,” is recently out from Apocalypse Party. Recent work can be seen at or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Black Lawrence Press, Cleaver, Dream Pop, Yalobusha Review, decomp, and Inter/rupture. Visit: