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Band-Aid Words for Crippled Intellects

Editor's Intro

by Brian Fugett

Lynn Alexander's bird Guillermo
I shudder to think that everything you are about to read was composed while under the influence of a flexible sigmoidoscopy. But things like this tend to happen when you turn 40. Things like sprouting a thick bramble of Chewbacca-pubes from your butt-crack that extends up your back, then blooms gracefully across your shoulders like a pair of furry epaulettes—which constantly prompts you to look in the mirror and wonder what RANK you are in the Wookie Warrior Army. Things like spiky tufts of hair flaring from your nostrils like weeds flailing in the October breeze. And all the while, the sexy, manly-man hairline you once flaunted recedes quicker than the low tide during a Tsunami. Hell, I wish I had a symmetrical and well proportioned skull even mildly tailored for the current shaven, waxed and shiny-headed fad, but I don’t. So, I wear shitty ball caps to conceal my follicular insecurity. And then your self-esteem takes a major nose dive when your best friends start sending you generic, off-brand packs of DEPENDS undergarments instead of something more absorbent and reliable.

Things get genuinely weird when you start to hear the old newspapers nestled in your parents’ hallway closet whisper shit like: “I remember the day Elvis Presley died, the little red Renault your mama drove smelled like leather sandals, Hostess Twinkies and salty tears” or that “the day President Reagan was shot your family room had the distinct scent of pork chops intermingled with mashed potatoes”. It’s a proven fact that the sense of smell factors greatly in our memory glands. I have smelled a lot of shit and a lot of greatness in my limited lifetime and I can distinguish the difference. But I am not here to tout my acute Jedi-like sense of historical smell. Nor am I here to fart in your face as most would expect from someone of my low-brow caliber, especially since I am nothing more than the mop-wielding JANITOR at the Red Fez. I get paid at least 98 cents less than minimum wage to mop up the shit of every rejected poem, story, botched correspondence or toiletry miscue in the Red Fez head quarters, and this includes airing-out the virulent flatulence of Mr. Leopold—Canadian FARTS truly stink worse than the gaseous emissions of any other nationality. No JOKE! Ukrainian immigrants come in a close second.

More than anything, I am proud as hell to tout and brag about how a pair of distinct and influential publications have managed to UNITE and promote so many different and unique voices online, in print and at LIVE events over the past couple years and how much friggin’ FUN we have had along the way! Zyfez (Zygote in my Fez) is a very unique union of a diverse group of poets, writers, and performance artists and we are on the VERGE of commuting and connecting here on July 8th in Oakland, California!

In the meantime, I will dither your poesy clitoris with this one final message:

Reading too much small press poetry might be harmful to your health and result in;

Seizures, erection dysfunction, and a lack of vaginal lubrication…proceed at your own risk.

Check out <a href=""></a> for the complete readers list & schedule for ZyFez & related events.

- Brian Fugett

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