Word to your Info-mercial.

by LaTisha Conto

I don't mince words

I slapchop em

And when I lay a sucka out

I smartmop em

I'm not a sham, now

Never was the plan, how

I get on stage and

mofuckas like Sham-Wow!

Fo yo info-mercial.

Hermetic Prose

by LaTisha Conto

It’s the staple on the utility pole

Tells the truest tale.

The notice has fallen away.

Or the notice has been detached,

Pulled off gingerly.

Or so it is supposed by the one now in the know.

Only the pole feels the pang of instruction.

Pang. Pang. Pang.

Prolonged Pangs,

Only so it can be told:

People have talent.

People have lost things.

People are lost and playing at being themselves.

And now weather sets in,

Sets an eye on the pole.

The message gets soaked in this role play,

Soaked, and now pulp.

Closest to the pole now.

But what of the staple?

This stubborn staple maintains the onslaught of pangs.

Still injecting the pain for the sake of the now long since fallen away message.

So now the pole,

Distraught with pain,

Racks its brain for the recall of time,

Before said message went away,

‘What’, pole cries out, ‘did it say?’

Absolute silence.

Pole never heard the message because the screeching was such,

That as the staple attached,

The pole could hear only itself.

And even though the message,

It did show on the pole: out,

Pole knew really, nothing about it.

And what is the necessity of said message?

What importance so great as to supersede the need of the pole to be free,

From pain?

Absolute trash.

To be forgotten in no time.

Long after it’s forgotten, the pole will remain encased in this nonsensical message.

No person noticing this pole’s implosion.

No person noticing this pole is a lone, lonely thing.

This quiet communicator,

Quietly writhing in pain.

Silence is understood only by the silent.

And the silence of the now message barren pole is:

A sad sickening soul,


Burned, but also buried,


Dead inside but never showing out,

Carrying the message,

Never knowing the least about it.

In a Russia Without Tea

by LaTisha Conto

Cold leaves trampled

Warring put off, put in


Fighting the good,


An olive, garish and unclean,

Few utter a word too long for children to chant

Scream Oh! Oh!

In the streets quietly, amidst a feathered smokescreen

A man with arms has the deepest reach

Deepest pockets to reach into

Throws up the cold leaves

There is no tea.

There is no tea.

It’s a world of laughter

A world of fear

Needing an update, a knock down; out

Of walls, hollowed

Of walls, hallowed

From a long forgotten chamber, a hissing

Glitter provides a smokescreen, a very pretty


In a Russia without Tea.

Birds run the stations.

And birds fly highest

And birds talk loudest,

On the streets.

Screech Oh! Oh!

But patiently waiting.

At the broken foot of  a great wall,

Is there not an up rise?

Quietly gathering the steam.


A simmering teapot simmering sits,

Simmering, soon

My dear Russians,

Soon there will be tea.

A Girl Walked Into A Wall

by LaTisha Conto

A girl walked into a wall.

Wall was stoic, removed, rested.

At ease appearing in front of this girl.

“Hello wall, how do you do?

            If you please, might you move so that I may pass through?”

This resting wall would not answer the girl.

She kicked and she screamed: “Wall out of my way!”

But this wall heard only: Stay! Stay! Stay!

In fact that wall did nothing the lovely girl asked,

And at the end of the first day, finally she collapsed.

She sat, slumped all night against that most stubborn of all walls.

She cried and wondered aloud: “Where did wall get his gall?”

And then somewhere amidst the dawning of day in her thoughts

Arrived a sweet plan.

“Wall, if you won’t listen to me, if you won’t obey,

I’ll knock you down by the end of this day!”

And this most tiniest of girls began with all of her might to Pound! Pound! Pound!

Her fists became bloodied and her tears stung them so,

But for the rest of that second day her fight n’er would slow.

And though she was tired,

And though she was hurt,

The wall would n’er be the wiser.

The pain it inflicted; the girl would not grant permission to show.

For even out of it, this girl, make not the mistake: was in complete control.

And as night fell over the girl and the wall she gave one more run.

Gave her body, her anger, and her tears to a fall.

And as she lay once more, crumpled at the foot of that wall,

She decided she had no idea after all.

But then, just as before in the dawn of her thoughts and the new day,

A lovely piece of information floated her way.

It floated down and around and sat on her ear,

Whispered to this sweetest of girls:

“Wall has never seen a lovelier girl around here.”

And in the pink of the sunrise on that third day,

The girl shed her loveliest clothes,

Leaving on the littlest, revealing the most.

She softly swayed to the sound of herself,

And began a slow dance that moved to the wall,

Whom did not break his stance.

She rolled around her head, rolled her hips and she moaned.

Wall stood unflinching,

A king on his throne.

Finally she gave one last dance,

Gave her all,

Threw herself and her sexy all over that wall.

Witness, she believed, to an eventual fall.

But if the wall had fallen, she had fallen deeper than wall,

Because now wall stood just as tall as before.

“How could you not have been moved”, she implored.

As she slumped to her bum on the night of that day,

She wondered if wall had its own truth, its own way.

This wall was impossible to move or remove,

And yet she still could not grasp why wall would want to stay.

And in front of the wall the lovely girl began to cry.

One tear at a time until her devastated eyes ran dry.

And as her eyes dried and dawn, yet again, set in,

The littlest little girl pulled up on her feet with a grin.

This grin was not

A grin of gracious defeat,

But a full watt smile,

Full of conceit.

She stood, feet planted, facing the wall,

And with the uppest of upstretched arms,

Started to crawl.

Her crawl led her body up,

To the top of that wall.

That cold, non-moving, unflinching wall.

And as she reached the top, about to leap over,

She turned, whispering back over her perfectly poised shoulder:

“Wall, I don’t need you to move, be moved or fall,

I go right up and over you, move forward and never think of you again,


    At all.”