Exterminating Angel Press

Creative Solutions for Practical Idealists.

EAP: The Magazine Archive

Summer 1980.

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by Sean Murphy.

Who am I to speak of the dead
or even dare to presume
it’s my place to do so?

Because I was there, aware
—even at ten—this was something
nobody would ever forget.

An era when news was on the news,
and word of mouth, always
the best way to convey everything

Bad, or good, or whatever it was
we needed to know, including places
to eat or fight or later, fuck.

A black boy drowned one day:
did it matter; is it important
that he wasn’t white?

It did, in 1980, and it does
today, but I was way too young
to grasp meanings or metaphors.

(A planned community; man-made lake,
Manicured lawns, pre-fab families:
America eating itself again & forever.)

And who’s being served by this
indulgence, however good my intent,
this milestone, this memory?

I’m not sure, but it feels wrong
not acknowledging a forgotten kid
we lost; to recall all our departed

Who endure in the past tense,
reclaiming lost things: days of being
a boy our business, the future not dark

So much as unseeable—a darkness discovered:
like a reflection or a limp body retrieved,
too late, from the bottom of a lake.

Condemned to Relive.

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by Benjamin White. The nation is built on false narratives Orchestrated by the unquestioned facts Operating on the poor reflections Manipulated by historical Understandings of the benevolence Created by the projected image Hollowing out the scene of honesty Fabricating the nostalgic comfort Of time and place that never existed – Remembered in the longing for […]

My Last Word.

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by Lana Hechtman Ayers. This red room is coming to an end. See how the overhead bulb flickers? You insist on baking bread but I have no time for crumbs. Allow me to sink into violet chimes as my shadow grows deeper. Some will gossip about sonnets, others about Sonny Rollins on sax. All curiosity […]

All at Sea.

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by Cliff Beck. Sailing eastwards under a clear sky towards yet another day that once seemed so far away we follow the stars we have always known to steer by. I stand motionless at the prow between the bow wave which, like the treasure trove of memories saved from my journey to now, grows ever […]

On the Cusp of 77.

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by David Bolton. Take a gander at what came and what’s to come In the meantime, seek the amber of the setting sun After a day at the screen. my strained eyes hunger for beauty Along the way to no destination, I say hello to strangers, commenting on the perfect weather, the absence of crushing […]

Dead Moose In The Road.

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by John Grey. Cars in both directions stop. All drivers share the same helplessness. A deep ditch stands guard on both sides. There’s no getting around the corpse.   There are not enough of us to move the thing. A few lean over the unfortunate beast. Some turn their heads out of respect One suggests […]

Colas Breugnon.

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by Jerzy Liebert. (translated by Charles S. Kraszewski.)   The angels drive from Eden bold Men, birds, and deer trembling with dread. No more ambrosia, sweet and gold. They’ve given us cow milk, and black bread. God thought that quartering black bread, We’d wring our hands in anger rank But — bread tastes better than […]

Waterfront, Memorial Day ’88.

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by Stephen Mead. “Good Morning Vietnam” the theatre marquee read. I could see it between these porch beams & our neighbors roofs. It takes awhile to sink in, twenty years or more back then, to bring the war home, let the unmentionable surface for what it was, was not & will forever more be: both. […]

Since you asked.

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by Diana Morley. what two weeks in a hospital bed was like— my mouth so dry I’m careful— I fear losing tongue cells on opening doc explains, my intestine dry as a Lowe’s outdoor plant—adding too much water at first could simply drown it scooping last bit of ice from a paper cup with a […]

A Crook in the Rain.

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by Marissa Bell Toffoli. There is too much forgetting. I hold my breath as if it will hold everything– press pause for us. An alarm chimes, the laundry is done. A car beeps in the distance, traffic moves on. I chide myself, don’t let the day’s distractions lead. Through the kitchen window, I pocket another […]