Local Underground Writers and Publishers Challenge

Underground publishers should publish people who aren’t their best friends more often.


Local Lit becomes incestuous static shit.

I’m bored to fits when I realize this.


So much same it makes me sick.

Waste of trees; what’s in print?


Questions which reign legit when I pick up that paper.

Say something real, different, true, to challenge the wit with what’s writ, stranger.


Can we get a new point of view?


Stop words that just fit.

Surely fitting the appearance-redundantly, the image and lifestyle of a wordsmith.


Break outside the confines of critically acclaimed lines, lest stay to remain has-beens, same-same exist.


Because with stale and dated you won’t move thoughts with any great number of pages, tire to frustration.


But I suppose this won’t happen ever because what’s described is too easy.

Local Underground Scribes: Satisfied and sleazy.

I use the word “writer” loosely and freely, but never LITERALLY.


Wise up, we read the compromise between forced-publish and real tries.

I don’t promote my best friends work, I promote my best work-Mine.


Call it how I see it.

You can call me a jerk.

I count the times.


But what’s in words?
And who is to judge?


The only thing changing in Minneapolis, in relation to progressive artistry, is the number of words which lack meaning, and the amount of people who will introduce themselves as writers.

There is no deficit, we pile shit on shit.


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