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VINCE RAPPA
It's all hushed in King and Love
                                                               craft's country

and all of us might
                talk
                               funny
but we don't really speak
to nobody so forgive us
for not making
eye                                                                                                                                                                                                      contact. 

Leaf peepers pepper our backyards
and try not to get twisted
in the trees
                 we the fairy people stay huddled
                                 and aloof
                                                 we'll talk if we're on the clock.

                                                                                               However
our hamlet is open to anyone
who can find it 


Thick fog gnaws at our headlights;
“How long are we on this road for?” buzzed Boston girl
“North Pembroke road gets longer the more you're on it,” I reply, still feeling cider slither in my throat.
“Don't say shit like that to me right now!” 
                                                                                                    the two plastered boys in the back laugh, knowing that
                                                                                                                      the uneasiness of outsiders here is what
                                                                                                                                    gets us through Halloween's
                                                                                                                                          orange glow, no moon. 

Pinprick night sky littered with
the exhale of dead explosions
and it's so quiet you can't
even hear my cats                        snacking
on the                                                  marrow. 

This land's got me
sutured to the woods
and I've let the wounds
dig in
                and
                fester
                at this point.

We're all blood letting
to let the foliage look
less muted.


                                                                                                                                         there are enough of us
                                                                                                                                old apple cores
                                                                                                      scattered on the ground--
                                                                                                                         I never know 
how to feel      until                we've left. 

Header photo by T. Guzzio.

CONNECT WITH VINCE:

Vince Rappa is a recent grad out of Lake Forest College where he stumbled into an English degree. Testimonials for his writing include; "He uses his words in ways that make you want to lie on the floor and waste away your days listening to experimental jazz," "As a good friend, I read them like I was asked to," and  "That sure was a poem." Until he perfects his craft he can be found in his room playing Street Fighter. You can follow him on Twitter @MistahRappa.​

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ISSN 2378-5268
  • NOTES FROM THE OVERGROUND
  • MY COVID-19 SOUNDTRACK
  • ABOUT PC
  • PAST ISSUES