TOUCH THE EVIDENCE
Nothing happened. That is exactly what it wants you to think.
A City That Chews Its Own Tail
A poem about late buses, neon omissions, and the appetite of cities.
PRESS FOR REASSURANCE
Too late. You are already reading Broken Zine.
In the parking lot, the moon spits gum
and the buildings forget our names.
Elevators hum like tired animals,
carrying ghosts who never clocked out.
We feed the city our unfinished selves—
coffee cups, receipts, small confessions—
and it chews, and chews, and smiles
through a mouth made of neon and omission.
At two a.m. the buses become churches.
Everyone faces forward.
No one believes in arrival.
A man in paint-stiff jeans sleeps
with both hands around his lunch.
A woman reads a paperback
as if the ending owes her money.
Somewhere a dog barks at a billboard
for happiness in studio apartments.
The river remembers what we throw away.
It always has.
Morning comes wearing yesterday’s shirt.
We go back in.
THEO FINCH
Theo Finch handles poems, fragments, overheard weather, and sentences that refuse to become useful.
Push something. The magazine is poorly supervised.
PUSH THE WEIRD BUTTON
A small bureaucrat somewhere just stamped APPROVED FOR NONSENSE.