The Ethics of American Kickboxing

by 90s Meg Ryan



released September 13, 2013

∞∞∞ Hit "lyrics" for the text. ∞∞∞
Submission questions: 90sMegRyan [at]
Album art and header: "socks on" and "socks off" - collage on paper, 2013. by ROAST HOGGMANN – more at
Mike Krutel is from Akron, Ohio, where he is a co-curator of THE BIG BIG MESS READING SERIES. He is an Assistant Editor for the online poetry journal Pinwheel. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Coconut, iO, Jellyfish, Forklift, OH, and NOÖ.

Kim Stoll lives somewhere under the impossible desert moon of Tucson, Arizona. It is there that she spends most of her time worrying that her dog is trying to communicate something to her, but what? You can find her Anna-girl poems lurking in the dark corners of such online publications as ILK, Birdfeast, and Cloud Rodeo.

Joshua Kleinberg lives in New York. Just add him on facebook for fuck's sake.

Mark Cugini’s first chapbook, I’M JUST HAPPY TO BE HERE, is forthcoming from Ink Press. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Melville House, Hobart, Sink Review, Barrelhouse, Everyday Genius, and numerous other places. He’s a founding editor of Big Lucks, a regular contributor to HTMLGiant, and the curator of the Three Tents Reading Series in Washington, DC.

Kassi Stancato is an equestrian (no she isn’t, she just likes that word) and a lover of hands. She’s writing in Indiana, where she is often complimented on her penmanship.

Casey Hannan is the author of Mother Ghost. He can be found in Kansas City and at

Ben Latimer is a custodian at Harvard University in Cambridge. He spends his time solving challenging math problems and getting into fights with his Irish-American friends. He hopes to some day bang a British girl and come to terms with his childhood issues.

Wilderness Alive is an Indie Rock band from Nashville, TN. They’ve been touring sporadically this year. Find them:

Roast Hoggmann’s interest in art began at an early age, as he was completely immersed in the fantasy world of comic books and cartoons. After completing his BFA in Painting at Indiana University, Roast moved to Los Angeles, CA to pursue his artistic endeavors. His work explores both internal character flaws and societal issues through narratives populated by mythical monsters and satirical animals. This unique pairing of strangely relatable figures and themes leaves the viewer feeling uncomfortably involved.


Thanks to those of you on the other end of conversations with me about this thing. A few specifically: Party Ghost, FURCAKE, David, CMR, Greg (and those awesomer than everyone else dudes out there), Pete, Dudes, Bros, my parents.


all rights reserved



90s Meg Ryan Muncie, Indiana

In 1989 Meg Ryan immortalized herself as Sally Albright.
Throughout the next decade, she mesmerized us all.

contact / help

Contact 90s Meg Ryan

Track Name: Two Poems –Mike Krutel

Here is you unclean shirt
With unclean money pocket
In the pocket
Money Pocket
Here is total destiny

My hot is money with air
With how I till a room

Feel led alive in my palms
Here’s notice

Here’s grace
The astronauts are never coming
We’re never coming
The pocket in the green green

Capital of vast mountain country
Small bordering land

New questions go
He doesn’t member any
Dreams just fog and scream
Just flog and seem complete member

I don’t know


I’m trying to answer but

We may say
After New York, we went to Baltimore

To fear no eye
The feastly go on with feasting

Hear you unclean shirt
Hear you total density
Sometimes stare out a window
Until nothing left fog scream
Walk around card stock five days
Finally no word just get on

It doesn’t feel like a bomb went off
It doesn’t feel like a produce chamber

Splatter channeling points to cure
Points to hard heard nothings in rubber shoes
What ever bounces off of

You get the idea
We can’t see them coming

Tanker ships sent into
A great misunderstanding
Spanked with champagne


" Fogland"

I stare into a gigantic cat skull
Nowhere seems to park exactly without a fever
A fever is not the exact excuse for a meter
The gigantic cat skull tells me I won’t stay here very long
I tell the gigantic cat skull I will
I tell it go blind a worm’s hole
Go smash your beauty parasol into the sea
The fever has cake bread for dirt
But I grow in an alternative multiverse
The plans grow more distant each time they come flying
I’m smashed off a thousand tiny rocks
It seems right in the fervor, the knife labeling
A meter is about what happens, outside its regular
I’m a bag of fluid and I eat a lot of salt
My fluid is cut and shipped around; it glows
Bright lights my little Suzy, sing!
Bright lights my little Suzy, sing!
Suzy is my ship
Orange juice near midnight
So very near held midnight
I keep flipping through with gigantic paws
And like a pony I ride so fanged, a graveyard fruit bowl
Hardly do I sing without feeling a little dust handed
On my knees and unseeing in a bright room glued
With bright walls and no windows
Just a clutter landscape and cutlery noise manufacturing
Just long slide into hum that turns factory stupid
All the machines launching themselves from highest window
O! I could launch too! could call you sweet muffin
But only if it’s real the way being tired is real, explosive
Or the way one might walk into the public market with a parade strapped to chest
I go on shaking like a century in damned heat
I wear my sunglasses to signal the new riot begins

Track Name: Three Anna Poems –Kim Stoll
"Anna Well-Mannered"

Anna pounds on her walls. I am meat. I am a real meat girl. Half asleep, hears a faint knock-knocking back, hammered into her dream-Anna life. Anna sends out wantings on lanterns and birds, drowns them in ponds. Folds down her bed sheets, hands-and-knees scrubs scuffs off tiled floor. Anna says You’re welcome to the carpet, to where window meets sill. Writes Thank You on paper she stuffs down sink’s drain. Anna digs open scabs, reads trickles of blood replying. She’s asleep in the shower again. Her thoughts a frozen lake, not thawing.


"What’s Inside of Anna"

Anna is the ground beef lining my skull, the bad milk inside my muscles. Anna’s burnt clay I throw to the river, she’s softening to silt. What even makes an Anna girl? Intestines tangled around more intestines, or words, her small supply which bloats her. Birdseed, her sifting sand, compactness/constipation. She bulges when we tip her head back, funnel down her throat. If air, she deflates, she slouches. The beetles pull her this way and that. She chokes down what she wants to shape herself around, she swallows what I give her.


"Anna Does the Gardening"

I’m sorry I’ve made her sick again. Will leave her tending to the flowerbeds. Send bees to slip through her humid greenhouse hair. Clouds refuse to shake their weight loose on her Anna-home. She’s puddled vomit in the beansprouts, slumps and sleeps herself against the cabbage. Open mouth to dirt. Sylys pulls the rain down, covers her in arms and hands, in pony hair. What musky earth, bat fur and moth smell. Chicken plucked and boiling. Through her overheating, hears Someone-Sylys saying plain, I love you, your nose and finger bones. Each nightmare that ghosts inside you, Anna, you can overthrow, you know?

Track Name: Miserere #19 –Joshua Kleinberg
"Miserere #19"

Don’t you worry about me

I’ve laid down in the grass and thought about shit

I have wretched up the worm a time or so, if I may say

I have melted into carpets

My head

in my hands

like the cover to that Creed album

I’ve been funny about it of course

Some of the most fun times of my life

have happened during the Denial phase

It is nothing, I know, but time that tightens

It is what you leave in your wake that defines you

I know

We’d like to believe it’s the things you’ve made

but it’s just all the shit you can never go back on, I know

I hereby renounce my ferocity

I got you this aptitude for retention—nono, I don’t need it

I bought a calico cat, I got a job

I put five dollars in a jukebox today,

played every song I’d shown you,

went home and fucking lost it

Just a bit more Depressed, Then Acceptance, says the book

Just a couple more breath exercises

In the beginning was the Word and The Light

Not theirs, but somebody else’s

In the beginning was the Word and The Light

I am trying to remember what it was like

I’m spending hours and hours and hours at work

Getting Back

You see what I’m saying about category?

You see how, if the spark of light can come as a surprise,

How it could just up and die just as well?

Ain’t nothing down these streets for you, baby boy

Ain’t nothing you could find of much use

Only dastardly ruination

Helpless disgust

Your head on your mom’s breast

A Sweet smell on the days dad would give out the belt

Your pleasure there with your head jammed in the bedframe

A porno you found in the snow

That winter when we all got concussions

Your hand shifting in the crook of your thighs

The day in the closet she said, “Feel Me”

I am trying to get my shit correct

I am just a Bottle of volition these days

And I’m sorry, Anthony, for the gum in your hair

I’m sorry I lied on the Bible

I didn’t know

I didn’t know that it would stick like that

I never knew all that about Sleep and then Death

I never knew how Hate was the Daughter of Love

I just thought You love a thing

And then you stop

Our hero was born on a Tuesday

A little boy with misshapen legs

He likes to skin his knees, just a little, on the asphalt

He likes the color of his blood

Track Name: Some Rules in Which to Bro By –Mark Cugini
"Some Rules in Which to Bro By"

You should, at any point in time,
be able to the recite the specs of any
Mercedes S-Class off the top of your head—
if not, memorize the monologues of
at least seven mob movies. Do not try to argue
with anyone who says that Goodfellas is the best
movie ever made — that’s fucking gay, bro. Do not
go longer than three days without running a lawnmower
over the space between your eyebrows—that’s
fucking gay, bro. Never call someone’s car
“sick” if he isn’t someone you’d chirp on a Friday
night—that’s fucking gay, bro. Always call it
chirping, not clicking, unless you actually are
from Brooklyn—and if so, the fucking horse
you rode in on. If your father’s from The Bronx,
root for The Yankees; if your father’s from Bay
Ridge, root for him to spontaneously burst into
flames while working on a power box on
Atlantic Avenue, because that’s the only way
you’re going to convince one of those public school
girls to give you a hand job. If you live amongst
the brick mailboxes and M-classes of the South Shore,
tell people that your father is an old-school goomba from
Gravesend; if you live on the Mid-Shore, tell people that
you run racks at Cue Time on New Dorp
Lane, even if you are too afraid to walk past
the brothers busting spades outside of the
high school in the afternoon; if you live on
the North Shore, tell people that Method Man
showed you his penis in the bathroom of Brother’s
Pizzeria. Only date girls who’ve never dated guys
that have worked at Brother’s Pizzeria. If you
can’t break up with your girlfriend, go away
to school, and make it somewhere far, like Oneonta
or Westchester. If you go away to school and
you meet someone from Staten Island, pretend
that no one ever taught you how to read a map.

Track Name: Mercy Beyond the Veil –Kassi Stancato
"a kevorkian weekend
mercy beyond the veil"

hair ran quietly through fingers last saturday night
as you spoke to the stranger on the telephone
denying him your euthanasia hand
rummaging through your closet
full of needles and carbon monoxide masks
you pulled out an american flag
the corner a swastika where stars should be
get out the oil paints
creation: assisted suicide in reverse
turn up the bach
its time to party

Track Name: Right There in Kansas City –Casey Hannan
"Right There in Kansas City"

My friend enters my apartment, takes off his shirt, and accuses me of being a brown recluse spider. He senses my desire to devour him in the dark of my living room. He'll shake out his clothes from now on to make sure I'm not lurking inside.

"It's a hot den of iniquity in here," he says.

I call it a nest. I don't believe in air conditioning. I've torn the stuffing from the couch cushions and made a bed in the corner. The light fixtures don't have bulbs. I smile to survey it, which is a mistake because of my teeth.

My friend has it in his head I have fangs. My canines are long. All parts of me are long. My face has been the real joke. I went as a happy crescent moon for Halloween for many years. That was during my social phase. My medicine phase.

Now I never go outside. I buy cereal on the Internet. I have a full-length mirror I pretend is a window into the neighbor's place.

"Do something," I say to my reflection in the mirror.
"Do me," my friend says.

He's part blind from where his pet tarantula flicked irritating hairs into his eyes. They are grey and opaque as raw almond milk. He can discern shapes and make do with the fuzzed aura of a new outfit, but he never knows if his hair is saying what he wants it to say.

"I want to silence my hair," he says. "Get it shorn completely. Will you do that for me?"

I say I consider shearing hair an erotic act, and I won't have any involvement in it.

"You used to be so horny and homosexual," he says.

I tell him I found sword fighting to be a violent pursuit, and I have abhorred violence since my terrifying birth. I'm only now starting to grow into my mangled parts. My head could be the bullet God used to kill the dinosaurs. All the better for my friend. He favors unique shapes. He tries to kiss me, and I recoil out of habit, not disgust.

"You don't deserve my gay rights," he says.

We move to the front door frame of my apartment. My friend steps outside. He puts his shirt back on.

"Let's go get wasted," he says.

He has dressed to lure me. His shorts are small as they come. A scant nod to decorum in that they cover his penis but not his thighs. I'm good to stand back and admire in the shadows.

My friend pulls my arms.

I push my friend. He bends back at the knees. He's been standing with his legs crossed, posing as a tall vase. As he falls, the skin of his legs separates on clean and invisible perforations. The sound is a thumb sliding into an envelope and tearing.

My friend's calf skin sinks down to his ankles. The colors of undergore are the same as a slice of pizza without cheese. I don't cross the threshold. I've memorized the number to Domino's. It's the only place I can think to call. I don't even pull out my phone.

My friend screams. I scream. I hear the neighbor's door open, and I hear the neighbor scream.

I close my door and press my eye to the peephole. I flatten my body into the pretend wood. I wish to merge with the industrial fiber. I wish it on my friend's exposed kneecaps.

The neighbor calls 911 and uses gator clips to secure my friend's skin for the short term. My friend is experiencing shock. I was once shocked to learn he loved me.

"If you ever tease me," he said, "about my love for you, I'll kill myself with the worst tool. Something with glitter suspended in its clear plastic handle."

The skeleton out there won't say anything like that again. He'll have only two words for me.

"Fuck you," he'll say from his recovery bed.
"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," he'll repeat until all he can do is slowly mouth the letter F.

Sometime later, when my friend is back in one piece and all is forgiven, he calls to say that the spontaneous appearance of cuts on his arms, legs, and trunk was not, as he once believed, the work of ghosts haunting his duplex.

"It's a skin condition," he says, adding that he doesn't believe in ghosts anymore.

He asks if I still cling to macabre fantasies. I close my eyes, and there they are--his two pale legs rolled down like socks.

I say it's hard to cling to anything but.

Track Name: Eat It by Weird Al –Ben Latimer
"Eat It by Weird Al"
Written and Recorded by: Ben Latimer

Editor's Note:
Ben is one of my all-time closest friends in this world. I've been able to play music with him for years, and he's one of the coolest dudes I know. While he was recording this song for me, he sent me a text that said he had tracked it all and was feeling iffy about it. He asked if doing a cover would be okay. I said yes, of course, and he said he was doing "Eat it" by Weird Al. Then he sent me this song.

Track Name: King and Captive –Wilderness Alive
"King and Captive"

Written and Recorded by Wilderness Alive.
Wilderness Alive is: Peyton Rodeffer, Blake Andress, and Sean Jensen.

More, HERE:

From the band:
This song was written about Nai Khanom Tom. He was a Muay Boran who defeated the Burmese King's best fighters to win his freedom and return home to his country. He returned a hero.