On October 17, 2008 the literary journal Zygote In My Coffee officially passed away. As I logged on to Zygote’s web-site at 12:38am in a fit of insomnia I was unfortunately greeted by the following message written in large red and teal letters:
ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST
Zygote in my Coffee
(Dec. 31st, 2003–October 17th, 2008)
Zygote in my Coffee has had a wild and fun 5 year run, but i think it’s time to give it a rest. I appreciate all of the support i have received from contributors, readers and subscribers over the years. This zygote thingie couldn’t have lasted as long as it did without you.
Thank you all very much for everything.
Today is a sad day. In the journal’s relatively short run in managed to bring together some of the most talented names in underground writing. Some have said that poetry is dead. At this moment I am inclined to agree. Where else can you read poems entitled “clever prick monkey fuck” or “she’s got that blowjob whore face” or the simply titled “anal”? Nowhere, that’s where.
Zygote In My Coffee was truly a venue for the alternative poet. It was a sanctuary where the unencumbered and uninhibited line could exist without judgment. And I’m not just saying this because Zygote was planning on publishing a poem of mine this fall – a poem where I rant and rave about my incredible sexual prowess and the earth shattering size of my penis.
But in all seriousness, Zygote In My Coffee had become one of my favorite journals and to see it go under so suddenly reminds me of the transient nature of literature and life. But on the other hand, there are far too many poetry journals, they’ve saturated the market with the watered down line and I enjoy seeing them die – I just wish that it could’ve been the Paris Review on the gurney instead.
The editor Brian Fugett, whom I’ve never had the pleasure to meet, (and whom I’ve always called “B fukit”) must fell a strange sense of freedom and anguish. It may be the case that when we die or lose something in which we’ve put our most sincere effort we might feel what Brian feels.
And so, whether you’re sitting on the toilet watching your zygote go round the bowl, or at a hospital, the sterilized instruments staring you in the face, don’t forget to say goodbye.