Welcome our new Multimedia Editor,
Felino A. Soriano!

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Accompanied by Unlikely’s own Justin Herrmann on drums and his brother Jordan on bass, Momma Molasses explores the limitations of life with traditional American rhythms, straightforward melodies, and clear, sophisticated lyricism.

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click to enlarge section 1 of Bandit Queen by Ceceila Chapman

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I come to work at seven-thirty. I start and seven-thirty and finish at four. We get half an hour for lunch.

As you walk down the corridor it gets shabbier and shabbier: the carpet turns from light green to dark; the rooms get darker; the carpet ends and becomes tan and pink lino; the tan and pink lino ends. Our lino is two shades of grey. Our office is woodwork-teacher furniture, old typewriters and four time clocks. All the time clocks are wrong.

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crowed of ants hide in their undergrounds lairs
their red wrinkled slave driver armies
are not marching to gain power
just yet

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from now on the money's
about sentences
if you think you can place
that surprise litany
around your eyes

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same mistake christ made
same mistake krishna made
same mistake crowley made
same mistake carroll made

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Black Lives Matter started the night George Zimmerman got away with killing Trayvon Martin. After hearing the verdict, Garza used the phrase “Black Lives Matter” in a Facebook post. “Black people. I love you. I love us. Our lives matter, Black Lives Matter”

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The house wants some
conversation or a song
to fill its spaces.  The night
remains quiet.  I discover
a certain jealousy. 

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Listen Listen to what you hear
to what you hear yourself telling yourself
listen to what you hear yourself telling yourself
while you are brushing brushing while you are
brushing your teeth

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the befriended bone
of a starving dog, the
preferred spot
​of a peeping tom,

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rooms w/o equations
o/windows, o/doors,
[out, out, out!]

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Once we fully understand the mechanics
Of quantum consciousness,
We will finally be able to prove that humans
Create poems at rates
​Of between 40 and 120 cycles (i.e., poems) a second.

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The workday, truncated as it was, would be followed, soon enough, by yet another. The man fumbled with his keys as he stood outside his flat in the dim yellow light of the hall. Fatigue hampered the man’s fingers and threading the key into the lock required three attempts before the man met with success. Home smelled of two parts lemon drop, one part cinnamon, and a dash of pine scented floor cleaner. Breathing in the chilled air of the empty flat, the man dropped his keys on the marble-topped table in the foyer. The only other item on the table, a porcelain doll, lay face up with its eyes closed. He righted the doll to sitting and as he moved it the eyes clicked open. The man smiled.

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