[ IN THIS ISSUE ]
N! NEWS
Kansas City, Sept. 2016
PROSECOLORING & WRITING PROMPTS
Publishers That Won't Waste Your Time[ oh- & check out ENCLAVE's "Where To Submit" for a more comprehensive list of potential homes !! ]
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POETRYSara Adams
[ website ] Danielle Marie Clark [ @DanielleClark_ ] Katie Clark [ @octupiwallst ] Amanda Dissinger [ @fragglezrock ] Jordan Hoxsie [ tumblr / @jordanhoxsie ] Jessie Janeshek [ website / @BlondeBitters ] Danielle Perry [ website / @jekyllian ] Alec Robbins [ website ] Soeun Seo [ // ] Erin Taylor [ @erinisaway ] HOW-tosRecommended Reading
INTERVIEWS & ESSAYS
ESSAYS & ARTICLES
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FEATURESARTWORKS
Richard Kerwin
[ website / @metanyme ] Jonathan Orion Nicoloff [ facebook ] kerry rawlinson [ website / @kerryrawli ] Nathan Tompkins [ @GorillaPoet1 ] MIXTAPES #002
YOUTUBE PLAYLIST
SOLID ALBUMS
LET'S DANCE WITH POEMS
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Let's Dance
ON THE ROAD : "Need gas to GET a new state of mind"
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This year's tours trainwrecked fast. Misfiring thru New Mexico. St. Louis tire squeals. New York soaked bones shiver. Kansas City liquored lips trip over a tweaked out man waving a rifle. Desert ragged confidence takes on the swamps. The Everglades respond by swallowing plans, like one long bong rip exhaling reroutes & "how the fuck are we supposed to make it there time?"s.
Yeah—one hell of a year.
But adventure isn't adventure without teeth—& N! managed the occsaional flossing. We succesfully debuted & toured 2016's chaps. Books & Shovels stumbled thru new lit while we bumbled thru new selves.
Oh—& we learned more about overheating + cuban coffee + web-cam modeling + Evangelicism + I touched a gator.
Out stories get weird. This year's crossings have been difficult to maintain my truth w/ others privacy. Sprinkled thru out this issue are photos & excerpts linking to the full entries. Well, not all of them. Some entries are still being written, & will posted at N!'s Tavern.
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@ The Rat Trap, Tucson AZ
somewhere
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Jugging Tucson to NYC
"That’s a locked door. There’s a smile tripping this stumble. Here’s a lock pick. Here’s a shot. Here’s a rolled back odometer. Here’s a shady wrench. Here’s a lawnmower spitting snake guts."
N! News: SNIPE & LIGHT 2016's Chapbooks FreeOi y'all !! We’ve released N!‘s 2016 chapbook series as free PDFs !!
The titular links below lead directly to the PDFs to read/download. If ya dig the chaps, a couple print copies (still donation-based !!) remain, all hungry for oil from your fingers <3 Much love, thanks for your support <33 |
stoked readers <3
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"I can remember the meaning of every tarot card but i can't remember what i texted you last night"by elle nash“a list of the identities i inhabit include
pretty girl eating salad at mod market counter reading a book night hands coming in from cold air to rest on my nearbody animals eating each other” from “the moon”
[ free pdf // order print ]
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"MAke a fist & Tongue the knuckles"by emily o'neill“This isn’t Texas anywhere except at your temples.
Where the sun lives. Where the smoke gathers. Your redhead unraveling in handcuffs, in the salt grass. Your apple chucked over your shoulder, half-eaten. Your frown lines. Your James Dean. You’re bad enough. Can’t be poor when even the cops beg for a souvenir.” from “Lucky Like That”
[ free pdf // order print ]
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"I was talking about love—you are talking about geography"by bob sykora“…There’s me sweating my balls off
at an electronic slot machine in the back of the Twilight Room in North Portland, trying to forget the way you’d let me piss in the trees when we were drunk late, talking on the bluff above the river, not cheating on our girl/boyfriends, terrified of this new type of love we’d discovered.” from “Clicking through Karen’s Wedding Pics”
[ free pdf // order print ]
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WORDS ON THE AVE w/ Teré Fowler-chapman
"Passion is everything you are coming back to you."
photo by Chelsea Gleisner
Teré Fowler-Chapman is a gender fluid writer–by way of this sonoran desert | by way of the boot’s bayou. This poet is a winner of National Arts Strategies’ Creative Community Fellowship, an educator, and family man. Teré is the founder of Words on the Ave, downtown Tucson's spoken-word reading series, curated by the city, for the city.
"Everyone brings what they think they need. Then the rest of the city just listens," Teré says over coffee outside Cafe Passe, the venue space used by WOTA.
Our conversation is recorded by a mic-emulation app on my phone, balanced on a small pile of books between us, framed by a consistent stream of people recognizing Teré, asking how they’ve been & about WOTA, local poets & writers & listeners who’ve been influenced by their impact on our desert city.
"Come as you are. & as long as you’re coming from a good place, I think Tucson will respect you."
"Come as you are. & as long as you’re coming from a good place, I think Tucson will respect you."
interviewed 11/20/16 by Jeremiah Walton
photo by Chelsea Gleisner
Nostrovia! Press : "With Words on the Ave, what triggered the idea to have the space? What brought about, 'I’m going to push this open mic' to exist, & fight for it to exist?"
Teré Fowler-Chapman : "So Toni Morrison is someone that really inspires me, & someone I consider a foremother.
& she mentioned that if you see something that isn’t there in your community or you see a story that isn’t there, then it’s your job to write it or create it. & I think that’s one of the responsibilities of being a poet. When you see something that doesn’t exist, create it.
So many of us can walk by an empty lot, and we see an empty lot. But one person can walk by & see an entire vision and this void being fulfilled. They’re the only one that can see it. & so it was like that with Words on the Avenue. When I first started reading out here, there really wasn’t anywhere I could be like an emerging artist. I would read at music open mics & things & I would just get swallowed by bands *laughs*
It wasn’t a horrible experience—but I knew that it could be better. & so then I basically said, “we need this, we need that as literary community.”
We need a space that we can be a work in progress, and honest, and have a platform to express who we are at any part of our journey. We need a space where people will accept that, and more importantly where people will celebrate that.
& so that’s literally where it came from."
& she mentioned that if you see something that isn’t there in your community or you see a story that isn’t there, then it’s your job to write it or create it. & I think that’s one of the responsibilities of being a poet. When you see something that doesn’t exist, create it.
So many of us can walk by an empty lot, and we see an empty lot. But one person can walk by & see an entire vision and this void being fulfilled. They’re the only one that can see it. & so it was like that with Words on the Avenue. When I first started reading out here, there really wasn’t anywhere I could be like an emerging artist. I would read at music open mics & things & I would just get swallowed by bands *laughs*
It wasn’t a horrible experience—but I knew that it could be better. & so then I basically said, “we need this, we need that as literary community.”
We need a space that we can be a work in progress, and honest, and have a platform to express who we are at any part of our journey. We need a space where people will accept that, and more importantly where people will celebrate that.
& so that’s literally where it came from."
photo by Chelsea Gleisner
N!P : "So with a developing Words on the Ave, how did that relate to you growing as a writer & as an artist? Did you see parallels or things you could pluck from?"
TFC : "Well, WOTA and my work grew up together. WOTA was a teacher for me and really showed me what my job was as an artist. Before Words on the Avenue came out, if you asked me what my job as a poet was, I would of been like, “oh, to write poems, & to get published.”
& that’s not the job of a poet at all. *laughs* That’s a very small fraction of what we do.
Our job is to use this creative language to hold people & to hold community together. That’s our job. To uplift voiceless voices. To inspire people that also inspire people thru this language of expression.
Once I realized that was my job, that’s when the teaching really came in. That’s when I started having more fun & getting more innovative with the workshops, as where before I’d be really excited to do it, but I also don’t know if I would have defined it as my purpose as a poet at the time. It was kinda like this add on.
Now it’s the epicenter. It’s who I am as a poet, & what my job is as a poet."
& that’s not the job of a poet at all. *laughs* That’s a very small fraction of what we do.
Our job is to use this creative language to hold people & to hold community together. That’s our job. To uplift voiceless voices. To inspire people that also inspire people thru this language of expression.
Once I realized that was my job, that’s when the teaching really came in. That’s when I started having more fun & getting more innovative with the workshops, as where before I’d be really excited to do it, but I also don’t know if I would have defined it as my purpose as a poet at the time. It was kinda like this add on.
Now it’s the epicenter. It’s who I am as a poet, & what my job is as a poet."
photo by Chelsea Gleisner
Ode to the sky resting above Galusha Hill Farm
instrumentals by torres hodges
When I look at you
Staring back at me
I know you call me by my ancestors’ name
Sweet pile of resting bone
Carrier of the biggest smile
Worrier of the world around you
Breathe
You want tell me
That
That you are resting over of all our names
That you are witness to all the blood
Building on the street corners
Racing to the pavement
Rising in my veins
We both know
Somewhere I am hanging
By the burn of a bullet
By the turn of a street corner
By silence
We both know
That somewhere I am living
Searching for the farthest tree
Wrapping my fingers around a raspberry
Pulling it from the earth
Placing it on my tongue
Somewhere I am
Rubbing noses with a lamb
Grasping platforms in a lake
Wrapping around laughter
Swallowing food for thought
Somewhere I am
Watching painters press out skylines on page
Pitching my truth to myself
Crafting community with my bare hands
Learning how to say my name
We both know
I am somewhere
Staring up at you
Hoping to see you shoot a star
And that you are
You are somewhere
Looking down at me
Calling me by my ancestors’ name
Sweet pile of resting bone
Carrier of the biggest smile
Worrier of the world all around you
No shooting stars tonight
There is enough you dying
Don’t you think?
Staring back at me
I know you call me by my ancestors’ name
Sweet pile of resting bone
Carrier of the biggest smile
Worrier of the world around you
Breathe
You want tell me
That
That you are resting over of all our names
That you are witness to all the blood
Building on the street corners
Racing to the pavement
Rising in my veins
We both know
Somewhere I am hanging
By the burn of a bullet
By the turn of a street corner
By silence
We both know
That somewhere I am living
Searching for the farthest tree
Wrapping my fingers around a raspberry
Pulling it from the earth
Placing it on my tongue
Somewhere I am
Rubbing noses with a lamb
Grasping platforms in a lake
Wrapping around laughter
Swallowing food for thought
Somewhere I am
Watching painters press out skylines on page
Pitching my truth to myself
Crafting community with my bare hands
Learning how to say my name
We both know
I am somewhere
Staring up at you
Hoping to see you shoot a star
And that you are
You are somewhere
Looking down at me
Calling me by my ancestors’ name
Sweet pile of resting bone
Carrier of the biggest smile
Worrier of the world all around you
No shooting stars tonight
There is enough you dying
Don’t you think?
THE FIRST
Dedicated to o.
My only advice to him is to remember everything. Remember the way your palms wrapped behind your back and didn’t know how to pray backwards. Remember the officer’s name. Remember the way they talked through you. Remember when you said it was your first time being arrested and he responded “really?” Remember the first poem you shot to the sky. Remember the blood rushing into your veins. Remember the moment you cried. Remember the first time you thought about being a better man. Remember the man you are already. Remember the way he questioned the white clerk when they declined pressing charges on you. Remember it was just a pack of gum. Remember you are full of forgiveness and deserve it back. Remember you love and deserve it back. Remember it was just gum and just like that. Remember it’s your city but it’s not your justice system. Remember you will fit the description whether you pick the gum up or not, whether you did it or not, whether you are guilty or not. Remember folks are being murdered these days with purchased skittles in their hands in the middle of middle class in the middle of morning. Remember they will criminalize you. Remember they will demoralize you. Remember there’s nothing cool about filling the bed they made for you. Remember to make your own bed. Remember the way you are rapped about, the way you are televised, the way you are publicized. Remember the definition of fitting in was born out of standing out. Remember to write your own story. Remember that you are a man afraid of fucking up. Remember that’s when it happens. Our men fucking up.
Remember
Before this store
Before this system
Before this pack of gum
You were here first
You are that kind of god, son
Remember
You are that kind of god.
Remember
Before this store
Before this system
Before this pack of gum
You were here first
You are that kind of god, son
Remember
You are that kind of god.
ON THE ROAD : New York to This Lil Lit Fest
"Nowhere was open, sign-less & happy to be in business. Nowhere laughed as we pulled on & off the empty highway. We ran outta data for maps. A lil polishing of the taste buds for digital privilege here."
ONE Video/POEM : Soeun seo
"Passion is feeding all your innards loop by loop
to ever-hungry spaces that can't be filled, letting it take
all of you split to the last strand of hair, dropped
where it disappeared,
spending everything from skin to toe in minuscule embrace,
never warming whole, and being delivered fresh
out the other end,
sacred and profane."
to ever-hungry spaces that can't be filled, letting it take
all of you split to the last strand of hair, dropped
where it disappeared,
spending everything from skin to toe in minuscule embrace,
never warming whole, and being delivered fresh
out the other end,
sacred and profane."
Soeun Seo is a poet/translator from South Korea. Her translations of Kim Yi-deum's poetry have been published or are forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review and Circumference. Her original works can be found at Potluck Magazine, Witch Craft Magazine, and Fuck Art, Let's Dance!
Safe travels, don't die
on the last night I felt like my futon was a boat and we were spooning along the Lethe
toward our deaths and in our mouths instead of coins there were pieces of chocolate
hell was warm all around us like blankets
I wasn’t sure if we were dead but I didn’t want to be certain
I’ve returned and you are leaving
promises are addicting because we don’t believe them
I’ve started to take note of where the stars hide in this neighborhood
remember when we walked along the bushes and watched how the night fades
beginning with the shades of the forest
the lagoon sat perfectly still holding in the ghosts of buildings
like a breath underseas, under siege
how many times did you get lost in that forest to find the perfect shadow
to hide in and feed me berries
like a secret or a promise
we kept finding each other closer than we thought
and it scared me
if I hold out my hand you would take it—small yellow flowers sing cheerfully by the cliff
but we are not supposed to pluck them
Traveller, I know of the magic you are about to enter
beauty will boil over the roads you step and you will crouch to lap them up
but so much magic can make you feel so mortal
careful not to forget what you looked like in the mirror
traveling starts to feel a lot like being lost
you get so used to taking off you want to leave your own shadow behind
I feel the most homeless when I gaze at a new city and it stares back at me
because it knows I will walk out on it shortly
if on some evenings you find yourself lost I hope it will console you to think of me
thinking of you at a beach neither of us would call home
I am imagining you back into my studio so we can be naked together
we dance for Dionysus and forget where we put the condoms
you tell me I feel like home and I like your lies a lot but I should
be honest—I don’t know where home is either
a strip of opalescent night sky hangs over the eaves of student slums like streamers
today I sat on the tree over that cliff to watch the evening bruise the sky in professionally
perfect pink gradations
the moon stared down
a glittering boat for drunken dismimeanors
a wind took me by the neck and told me to keep my fucking eyes open
because the best wonders are the ones you can’t share
and a wonder is only wondrous if it scares you a bit
it feels like death, eternal peace in a casket with room for a few more bodies
someday I could lie on your back and feel your voice tremble your skin as you try to describe it
but that is another promise
go now, my rambler, the world is out there, and when you are roaming remember
beauty persists in estrangement
and you are most strange when you are lonely
toward our deaths and in our mouths instead of coins there were pieces of chocolate
hell was warm all around us like blankets
I wasn’t sure if we were dead but I didn’t want to be certain
I’ve returned and you are leaving
promises are addicting because we don’t believe them
I’ve started to take note of where the stars hide in this neighborhood
remember when we walked along the bushes and watched how the night fades
beginning with the shades of the forest
the lagoon sat perfectly still holding in the ghosts of buildings
like a breath underseas, under siege
how many times did you get lost in that forest to find the perfect shadow
to hide in and feed me berries
like a secret or a promise
we kept finding each other closer than we thought
and it scared me
if I hold out my hand you would take it—small yellow flowers sing cheerfully by the cliff
but we are not supposed to pluck them
Traveller, I know of the magic you are about to enter
beauty will boil over the roads you step and you will crouch to lap them up
but so much magic can make you feel so mortal
careful not to forget what you looked like in the mirror
traveling starts to feel a lot like being lost
you get so used to taking off you want to leave your own shadow behind
I feel the most homeless when I gaze at a new city and it stares back at me
because it knows I will walk out on it shortly
if on some evenings you find yourself lost I hope it will console you to think of me
thinking of you at a beach neither of us would call home
I am imagining you back into my studio so we can be naked together
we dance for Dionysus and forget where we put the condoms
you tell me I feel like home and I like your lies a lot but I should
be honest—I don’t know where home is either
a strip of opalescent night sky hangs over the eaves of student slums like streamers
today I sat on the tree over that cliff to watch the evening bruise the sky in professionally
perfect pink gradations
the moon stared down
a glittering boat for drunken dismimeanors
a wind took me by the neck and told me to keep my fucking eyes open
because the best wonders are the ones you can’t share
and a wonder is only wondrous if it scares you a bit
it feels like death, eternal peace in a casket with room for a few more bodies
someday I could lie on your back and feel your voice tremble your skin as you try to describe it
but that is another promise
go now, my rambler, the world is out there, and when you are roaming remember
beauty persists in estrangement
and you are most strange when you are lonely
ON The Road : Down In The Bayou There Was A Bullfrog
"It’s 7:21am. Fox news blares. Which side of the same coin would make a better president? A small man with wrinkled hands sleeps. His neck dangles loose. Eyes covered with faux velvet sleep mask. A large security guard sits in his golf cart. He stares me down, smoking a cigarette. It’s my shift to watch our shit."
Two poems : katie clark
"Passion is being in love with the world is when a color isn't one color or another one is smiling at someone you don't know and them smiling back, loving each other in that moment is flannel sheets is porcelain cups is cypress leaves is the smell of sugar on gentle hands"
Katie Clark is a queer poet on the verge of the twenties who belongs to a lot of places: Jacksonville, parts of Georgia, the pioneer valley. Likes planting things and being alive. Katie's poems have been in Vagabond City, Voicemail Poems, and Words Dance. Tweets @octupiwallst.
i read your horoscope on autostraddle accidentally
Apology for the eight calls i didn't take from my mother in eight voicemails i didn't leave her
On The Road : The Everglades Suck Us Up In One Hit
"I can’t say I’m fluent w/ the South. I’ve spent time thru here & there, New Orleans, Atlanta, Savannah, but whether it’s rural or city, the Deep South doesn’t fuck around. We learned that in Arkansas last year, & regardless of what we’d been told, we didn’t intend to shake these dice more than needed. We aimed to make Miami in a night & day."
LIVE MIC PUBLISHING w/ JEFFRey Cyphers WRIGHT
"Passion lies deep inside, like a statue in a stone, waiting to be freed, imagining its creator chipping away at the layers covering it. It is the seed of a belief. A flame on the bottom of the sea. Blue and restless. It is a wave always moving through you and carrying you away and along."
Jeffrey Cyphers Wright impressed N!'s crew with his maze of interests & projects that he's invested sweat & love into for the literary/arts community. For F.A.L.D. #013, he shot us both poetry & art that caught our eyes.
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Wrapped up thru Jeffrey's art is his work as a critic, eco-activist, and publisher. He currently writes criticism for American Book Review, ArtNexus, & White Hot Magazine. He is a long time resident of the East Village in New York City, & produces literary events at KGB Lit Bar and La Mama ETC in conjunction with his magazine, Live Mag!—that said, he’s best known for his lyricism, having published fourteen books of poetry, including “Triple Crown, Sonnets” from Spuyten Duyvil and “Radio Poems” (forthcoming from The Operating System).
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"August Dog"
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It’s clear Jeffrey has worked for a life interwoven with art & passion, and as such, N! is excited to share the following interview :
interviewed by Christopher Morgan
"Mac, the Night Watcher"
Nostrovia! Press : "Being both a poet and an artist must offer a range of perspectives when considering future projects. How do you find your work informed by these different backgrounds? And how do you decide which of the two best presents your purpose?"
Jeffrey Cyphers Wright : "I’m very interested in the concept of a persona. I choose images and stances that have a metaphorical quality in both my poems and my artwork in a quest to re-present myself, and my world.
I find textural and visual motifs that fit with the persona I’m continually constructing (or deconstructing). For instance, I habitually use rock and roll lyrics in the poems and rock and roll stickers in the artworks. They evoke an esprit de corps and outlaw élan that fit my heroic stance.
Jesters, race cars, chimeras, mythological characters, animals, and insects all carry an aura that is expanded by copying them. The figures become avatars that explore notions of being, expression, and projection.
The figures I draw become alive for me. I name them. I like them. When I look at them they amuse me. They are animated. In a successful artwork or poem there is a combination of voices, images, conceits, that when put together in a certain order, begins to hum and operate as a perpetuating entity.
I find textural and visual motifs that fit with the persona I’m continually constructing (or deconstructing). For instance, I habitually use rock and roll lyrics in the poems and rock and roll stickers in the artworks. They evoke an esprit de corps and outlaw élan that fit my heroic stance.
Jesters, race cars, chimeras, mythological characters, animals, and insects all carry an aura that is expanded by copying them. The figures become avatars that explore notions of being, expression, and projection.
The figures I draw become alive for me. I name them. I like them. When I look at them they amuse me. They are animated. In a successful artwork or poem there is a combination of voices, images, conceits, that when put together in a certain order, begins to hum and operate as a perpetuating entity.
"Thirst Y"
All of my creative output is like a glorified diary… celebrating family and friends, commenting on life in the East Village and what it means to be a defiant denizen of Hipsville in the days of climate change. Anyway, as Robert Creeley decreed—'If it ain’t fun, don’t do it.' One must always keep the spirit of play close at hand."
N!P : Beyond your poetry, I can tell editing and publishing also mean a lot to you. As the co-founder of Live Mag!, how would you describe this publication to somebody unfamiliar with it? What kind of work do you champion? What kind of vibe do you rock?
JCW : "When I first came to New York, my mentor Ted Berrigan told all of us younger poets to start a magazine like C Magazine which he ran. He advised us to publish ourselves, our friends, and the most famous people you could get. There were a few magazines around the East Village then so I started publishing postcards instead. I published myself, my friends, and the most famous people I could get (like Allen Ginsberg). And I took it a step farther and reached outside New York.
And then from 1987 to 2000, I published Cover Magazine, the Underground National and we had some national distribution. It was called Cover because we covered all of the arts, with regular sections on dance, the various visual arts, literature, theater, and a big section on contemporary music.
In contrast, Live Mag! is yearly, not monthly. And we only publish art and poetry, with a few reviews. It started as a live event at the Bowery Poetry Club. Bob Holman asked me to put on a show and that’s how it started. We solicited poems from the audience and read them, declaring they’d been “published” in Live Mag! The magazine has evolved into a print and web publication that divides its content equally between art and poetry.
I’ve always liked the combination of visual and textual imagery. I worked as a typesetter for years and did a lot of fliers and postcards. I made them for some of the many readings and performances I was involved in that were happening in downtown New York at venues like Club 57, the Ear Inn, Darinka, Life Café, St. Mark’s Church, Chico Mendes Community Garden, and PS 122. I liked spreading the word that way and it was also valuable to have a physical record of an event."
And then from 1987 to 2000, I published Cover Magazine, the Underground National and we had some national distribution. It was called Cover because we covered all of the arts, with regular sections on dance, the various visual arts, literature, theater, and a big section on contemporary music.
In contrast, Live Mag! is yearly, not monthly. And we only publish art and poetry, with a few reviews. It started as a live event at the Bowery Poetry Club. Bob Holman asked me to put on a show and that’s how it started. We solicited poems from the audience and read them, declaring they’d been “published” in Live Mag! The magazine has evolved into a print and web publication that divides its content equally between art and poetry.
I’ve always liked the combination of visual and textual imagery. I worked as a typesetter for years and did a lot of fliers and postcards. I made them for some of the many readings and performances I was involved in that were happening in downtown New York at venues like Club 57, the Ear Inn, Darinka, Life Café, St. Mark’s Church, Chico Mendes Community Garden, and PS 122. I liked spreading the word that way and it was also valuable to have a physical record of an event."
recipe for a precipice
Start with overbearing delight
Untenuous joy
A dash of unrectified éclat
Smoothbore lightning salvaged
from the haunted mirror district
Blot up a dram of spilled sun
Capture ruptured rapture
Stir in a cage
of moth-eaten shadows
Add blue snapdragons,
blood squeezed from a Swatch,
mix well and tie into a knot
In my log of useless beauty,
love has no room for pity.
Untenuous joy
A dash of unrectified éclat
Smoothbore lightning salvaged
from the haunted mirror district
Blot up a dram of spilled sun
Capture ruptured rapture
Stir in a cage
of moth-eaten shadows
Add blue snapdragons,
blood squeezed from a Swatch,
mix well and tie into a knot
In my log of useless beauty,
love has no room for pity.
Wounded Star
You’re always going on
about how unfair things are,
how the deck is stacked for some.
Damn the dealer.
Every whine is one less win.
Let’s hear it for the kiss of hell.
Here’s to the drowning rat.
Here’s to the patrol that’s cut off.
Here’s to the crippled acrobat.
We’re all acting our parts;
I’m wind in a jug,
you’re a little off-key.
What could ever take your place?
A grain of salt? A wounded star?
about how unfair things are,
how the deck is stacked for some.
Damn the dealer.
Every whine is one less win.
Let’s hear it for the kiss of hell.
Here’s to the drowning rat.
Here’s to the patrol that’s cut off.
Here’s to the crippled acrobat.
We’re all acting our parts;
I’m wind in a jug,
you’re a little off-key.
What could ever take your place?
A grain of salt? A wounded star?
THREE POEMS : ERIN TAYLOR
"What is passion? Passion is not really a thing that makes any sense, yet it's also the only thing that makes any sense."
Erin Taylor is a Tulsa-based poet who is always somewhere else. She is the author of "OOOO" (Bottlecap Press 2016). She tweets @erinisaway and is always available at erintaylor.tumblr.com
people bottled it & labeled it stability
the river flooded in june, we all watched it in our lawn chairs
the neighbors took bets on whose house it would reach first
everyone wanting to crumble into the water their blocks &
possessions & memories they didn’t want to hold onto
anymore
a cleansing.
you were there smoking a cigarette & i wanted you to fall
into the water. i wanted to watch you float among debris
downstream. i would lose you for awhile, out of sight
it was almost like you never came into my life
but you would return eventually,
all streams connect back home to me.
you ask me what i am thinking of & i respond “not much”
as i chew on my nails. the water looked violent as it got
closer, aggressively washing us away. the earth has grown
tired of watching us day after day, the floods have been
coming slowly & all we do is laugh & make bets & make love
against the walls of houses that won’t exist in a few hours.
we won’t exist in a few hours but that didn’t stop us from
having sex in your parents’ bathroom. i watched you watch
me losing myself, i always lose myself when i let others fill
me. as if to fill my holes is to fill my empty, but it’s not the
same thing. the bathroom tiles at our feet were cold & wet
slowly it found us yet we didn’t stop. the stream was taking
us sooner or later & as your body became my body
trembling closely the floods flashed around the room
choking us. you begin to cry as you orgasm, i am clutching
the sink. the stream pulls you away from me & you are just
debris & i am just a piece of furniture that you were used
to having.
i lost fifty dollars, i thought it’d be my house first.
the neighbors took bets on whose house it would reach first
everyone wanting to crumble into the water their blocks &
possessions & memories they didn’t want to hold onto
anymore
a cleansing.
you were there smoking a cigarette & i wanted you to fall
into the water. i wanted to watch you float among debris
downstream. i would lose you for awhile, out of sight
it was almost like you never came into my life
but you would return eventually,
all streams connect back home to me.
you ask me what i am thinking of & i respond “not much”
as i chew on my nails. the water looked violent as it got
closer, aggressively washing us away. the earth has grown
tired of watching us day after day, the floods have been
coming slowly & all we do is laugh & make bets & make love
against the walls of houses that won’t exist in a few hours.
we won’t exist in a few hours but that didn’t stop us from
having sex in your parents’ bathroom. i watched you watch
me losing myself, i always lose myself when i let others fill
me. as if to fill my holes is to fill my empty, but it’s not the
same thing. the bathroom tiles at our feet were cold & wet
slowly it found us yet we didn’t stop. the stream was taking
us sooner or later & as your body became my body
trembling closely the floods flashed around the room
choking us. you begin to cry as you orgasm, i am clutching
the sink. the stream pulls you away from me & you are just
debris & i am just a piece of furniture that you were used
to having.
i lost fifty dollars, i thought it’d be my house first.
the American experience
fifty bodies on the ground
we once argued over gun control in a cafe
& now there are fifty bodies on the ground
fifty bodies on the ground
where you & i stand, where we meet,
where we intersect in the middle of
“it has always been this way” & “it will always
be this way”
lives in their spaces existing safely
going out to eat drink dance safely.
normalized violence, we reap what we sow |
a daughter has her first boyfriend, the father
jokes about buying a gun,
we all laugh.
i walk home alone with a knife, pepper spray,
brass knuckles shining in the moonlight |
a boy mumbles under his jaw in class
a boy mumbles under his jaw in class
& my heart is racing & I pray to a God I don’t
believe in that my school will not become
a hashtag.
fifty bodies on the ground
fifty bodies on the ground
fifty families in a line wearing black
fifty caskets bought early in a line
fifty funerals back to back to back
pray for them they say
until the next one
we hope there won’t be a next one
but these hashtags are becoming more
frequent.
we once argued over gun control in a cafe
& now there are fifty bodies on the ground
fifty bodies on the ground
where you & i stand, where we meet,
where we intersect in the middle of
“it has always been this way” & “it will always
be this way”
lives in their spaces existing safely
going out to eat drink dance safely.
normalized violence, we reap what we sow |
a daughter has her first boyfriend, the father
jokes about buying a gun,
we all laugh.
i walk home alone with a knife, pepper spray,
brass knuckles shining in the moonlight |
a boy mumbles under his jaw in class
a boy mumbles under his jaw in class
& my heart is racing & I pray to a God I don’t
believe in that my school will not become
a hashtag.
fifty bodies on the ground
fifty bodies on the ground
fifty families in a line wearing black
fifty caskets bought early in a line
fifty funerals back to back to back
pray for them they say
until the next one
we hope there won’t be a next one
but these hashtags are becoming more
frequent.
a strange time
who wants to kiss me
anyone
is this a poem or a begging?
i am begging you to give me a body
other than this one
i just want to feel lighter
i want to feel & be without
my friend & i in the six o’clock
body traffic, i smell him on my clothes sometimes
the tea tasted of flowers i always
wanted to look like.
i am a foreign tongue.
my friend & i sharing the name of an uber
on two different spheres
you pay for my food & i
laugh until my mouth is
bleeding but it only bleeds for you.
i say you but i mean you
who are reading
i am bleeding for you always
i am disgusting & gross
please love me despite this.
anyone
is this a poem or a begging?
i am begging you to give me a body
other than this one
i just want to feel lighter
i want to feel & be without
my friend & i in the six o’clock
body traffic, i smell him on my clothes sometimes
the tea tasted of flowers i always
wanted to look like.
i am a foreign tongue.
my friend & i sharing the name of an uber
on two different spheres
you pay for my food & i
laugh until my mouth is
bleeding but it only bleeds for you.
i say you but i mean you
who are reading
i am bleeding for you always
i am disgusting & gross
please love me despite this.
ON The Road : Sippin' ALligator Wine
"Poking embers of memories w/ photos as dusters to organize the story & keep some semblance of linearity that doesn't exist. One that dissolves in memory like a tab of acid under tongue."
A CHAPBOOK HOW-TO : AUGUST SMITH
"You know those Donkey Kong Country levels where you jump into a barrel and it shoots you into another barrel, which shoots you through some barrels into another barrel, which shoots you past some spikes into another barrel, etc etc? Passion is the first barrel. Or maybe it's the ones that you break.
It's definitely not the spikes."
It's definitely not the spikes."
August Smith is a poet and publisher living in Somerville, MA. He attends UMass Boston and runs Cool Skull Press. Nostrovia! released his chapbook "Bird Lizard Horse" in 2015.
How to create your poetry chapbook in indesign
PT. 1
THREE RINGS & ONE PAIR OF RED SHOES : ALEC ROBBINS
"Passion in the morning is going to be able too many times you have no idea what to wear it was not immediately available from the beginning of the best way for the next few years ago when the time of day to day basis points more to go back and forth between us.
[ Definition provided by iMessage Auto-Fill. ]"
Alec Robbins is an artist working in mediums like film, writing, comics, and game development. You may have watched his short film "One Billion Dates," read his poetry book "Lost Levels," or played his game, "Malcolm in the Middle Simulator."
Alec is one of the founding members The Teenagers Company, a monthly art collective, & hosts Giving Grief, a web series featuring artists from various creative fields that he then tries to make cry.
Alec is one of the founding members The Teenagers Company, a monthly art collective, & hosts Giving Grief, a web series featuring artists from various creative fields that he then tries to make cry.
"During a particularly stressful period of unemployment, I found myself inexplicably revisiting the original Sonic games. Making my way through the entire franchise one game at a time, I was struck by how little I was enjoying myself. Instead, I started to think more on just how drastically the image of Sonic has morphed over the years, and I became fixated on his tragic fall from grace. I formed a plan: I would write at least one poem inspired by every mainline Sonic game, all the while stringing them together to tell one long story through the eyes of a flawed mascot cooked up by a team of marketing executives. Here you will find a string of poems about Sonic CD, Sonic the Hedgehog 3, and Sonic & Knuckles."
Highway Doppleganger zone
Here you meet your first shadow. You’ll meet more of them, of course – there’s always more with you. Always “too much.” Less is more, they say, but just about the only thing you need more of is “less.” For now, let’s just focus on what’s in front of us.
This particular shadow is made of metal. He has your organs-cum-jet engines; he is your conflict given form. Nature against technology, Sonic against Metal Sonic. You’ll carry this ghost with you for the rest of your life, unresolved.
Here’s your first shot: a high-stakes race down the Stardust Speedway.
Give it all you’ve got.
Although... I wish both of you would take a minute to put away your differences and take in the sights around you. This city is beautiful at night, and you’re as high up as you can get. How to lucky to have a vantage point like this: the spotlights are scanning the fuchsia skyline and making a star out of everyone.
Slow down and take a seat together. Dangle your legs off the side of the floating freeway. Bond over your similarities: you’re both hedgehogs, you’re both fast, you’re both Blue. Marvel at your differences: one of you has a beating heart, and the other is hollowed steel.
I guess there’s no time for any of this, though, is there? Not even here, in a game about time travel?
Back and forth, changing this, fixing that... somehow, it’s still Time Over. Fine. Go ahead, Sonic. Race your demons. Flee from yourself. Keep running. Faster, faster, faster! You’re sparkling now, Sonic. Don’t stop now. Chase the future until you’re going fast enough to catch the past.
This particular shadow is made of metal. He has your organs-cum-jet engines; he is your conflict given form. Nature against technology, Sonic against Metal Sonic. You’ll carry this ghost with you for the rest of your life, unresolved.
Here’s your first shot: a high-stakes race down the Stardust Speedway.
Give it all you’ve got.
Although... I wish both of you would take a minute to put away your differences and take in the sights around you. This city is beautiful at night, and you’re as high up as you can get. How to lucky to have a vantage point like this: the spotlights are scanning the fuchsia skyline and making a star out of everyone.
Slow down and take a seat together. Dangle your legs off the side of the floating freeway. Bond over your similarities: you’re both hedgehogs, you’re both fast, you’re both Blue. Marvel at your differences: one of you has a beating heart, and the other is hollowed steel.
I guess there’s no time for any of this, though, is there? Not even here, in a game about time travel?
Back and forth, changing this, fixing that... somehow, it’s still Time Over. Fine. Go ahead, Sonic. Race your demons. Flee from yourself. Keep running. Faster, faster, faster! You’re sparkling now, Sonic. Don’t stop now. Chase the future until you’re going fast enough to catch the past.
Incomplete wreckage zone
Quick question, Sonic... if you’re supposed to be The Cool One, can Knuckles also be The Cool One? It’s getting a little cramped here, isn’t it?
And, I mean... we’ve all noticed it, right? You’re not gonna’ make me say, it are you?
Knuckles. He’s... Red.
Like... him. Like the plumber.
That’s not a mistake.
Do your demons haunt you in the physical world? By the time this is over, you’ll have made a new friend. Isn’t that what you wish would happen with Mario? Is that who you think of when you’re with
Knuckles? That’s what you really want: you and Mario play-wrestle for a bit and work out all your problems... then suddenly you’re buddy-buddy for the rest of your lives.
Like I said: a fantasy.
Do you think he even knows you exist?
Just be happy you get Knuckles.
And, I mean... we’ve all noticed it, right? You’re not gonna’ make me say, it are you?
Knuckles. He’s... Red.
Like... him. Like the plumber.
That’s not a mistake.
Do your demons haunt you in the physical world? By the time this is over, you’ll have made a new friend. Isn’t that what you wish would happen with Mario? Is that who you think of when you’re with
Knuckles? That’s what you really want: you and Mario play-wrestle for a bit and work out all your problems... then suddenly you’re buddy-buddy for the rest of your lives.
Like I said: a fantasy.
Do you think he even knows you exist?
Just be happy you get Knuckles.
cartridge gimmick zone
As if latching onto someone else’s back was going to make you finally feel complete... hell, you know the truth: it was just another way to make more money. That’s all they really keep your around for: to make money – and to make more money than him.
So they missed a deadline but turned a mistake into a goldmine: one game for the price of two. “It connects to the last game!” isn’t a fun new feature – it’s a curtain. Put this on the back of the box instead: “We didn’t finish on time, so now you get to pay double. We can spin anything! Just like your favorite blue blur.”
So they missed a deadline but turned a mistake into a goldmine: one game for the price of two. “It connects to the last game!” isn’t a fun new feature – it’s a curtain. Put this on the back of the box instead: “We didn’t finish on time, so now you get to pay double. We can spin anything! Just like your favorite blue blur.”
TWO MACROS : riCHARD KERWIN
"passion is anger w/ baubles"
richard kerwin is a poet, collage artist, and animator of gifs; low-key anti-natalist, high-strung mongrel anarchist, mad, depressed, queer. they’ve published in fruita pulp, reality beach, and voicemail poems and you can see more of her regular brain trash at tombl, tweater, or bolb
"light light light"
be even murkier
On The Road : Smog Moon Breathing
"In Miami, smog & misogyny cocktailed fog over the glass of coladas + Cuban cafes + gym rat selfies + bebopping trans clubs + rapping w/ that cat slammin’ drums + the man w/ a boa 'round his neck + staggering bums plucking at Wynwood’s hipster strip, begging change & smoke."
ONE PIECE : EVIL MTN
"Passion is the thundercloud just small enough for you to swallow. A thousand hands raking at the inside of yr gut to reach the sunshine. And all the slender bugs huddled at the back of yr brain, chanting in unison, telling you over and over and over again as you sleep, 'Move.'"
EVIL MTN is an evil mountain. Learn more on Twitter @evilmtn
FORMERLY
The hitchhiker is standing in a meadow. With the truck driver. The kind of meadow that foxes talk about. In the darkness of their foxholes. Wistful fangs. The kind of meadow that’s infinitely better than the one the dictionary’s always going on about. The kind with no corners.
The highway is nearby. Somewhere. They’re not sure exactly where. If they thought about it, they would remember shortly. A few seconds, maybe. After all, they came in from the highway. And they will eventually need to go back to the highway. But right now, in the meadow, thinking about meadow-related things, and also other things, they can’t quite recall. It could be just over the hill. It could be an ocean away. They feel like they can hear it. Just barely. Right behind their eyes. But can they really?
I dunno. It just doesn’t seem important right now.
The both of them are looking at the tree. It’s a very lovely tree. Full of heart. And light. And leaves too green to be actually green. It’s a tower made of blazing white fish bones. No. It’s a menagerie of deadly ribbon. It’s a porch light. It’s you before I met you. It’s our solar system in the dark. It’s coming back around. Digging and grasping and pulling itself up out of the dirt. Waiting for someone to see what it has done. And to smile. And call it by name.
It’s a very lovely tree.
The tree is surrounded by trash. Entombed in discarded rubbish. Soda cans. Coffee cups. Lockets. Eyelashes. Soiled paper plates. Beer bottles. Rat tails. Flower petals. Bloody glass. Burger wrappers. Broken knives. Crumpled magazines. Needles. Nails. A dirty shirt with a horse on the front. Other, smaller trees. Shredded envelopes. Milk cartons. A dead crow. Used guitar strings. A cracked snowglobe, leaking bile. A faceless book. Tattered bedsheets. Rotting pizza slices. The backseat of a minivan. An unidentified shard of horn. Bikes with an unacceptable number of wheels. A crushed saxophone. Ruined posters. Plastic bags. Glue puddles. Some teeth. Assorted hairballs. A beer keg of unknown status. Cow shit. A megaphone. Old headphones. Empty cans of beans. Parts for burlap sacks. So many teeth. Mismatched shoes. Other.
The trash spreads out from the tree. Into the meadow. There is a discernible border. Where the meadow stops being a meadow. And instead becomes a field of trash. Surrounding a very lovely tree.
Within the field of trash, next to the tree, there is a faded wooden sign. It reads:
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL TREE IN THE WORLD.
There are shredded ropes hanging from the tree.
There is no mud anywhere in sight. But it smells grotesquely of mud.
The hitchhiker is standing with the truck driver. In the meadow. Just outside of the field of trash. Snacking on a bag of baby carrots. And chewing very loudly. They are both of them looking at the tree. And at the field of trash. And at the teeth. And at the faded wooden sign.
Someone has added the word FORMERLY in the top left corner of the sign. Sloppy. In lusty red paint. It is not faded.
The hitchhiker crunches her baby carrots. Very very loudly. With her teeth.
The truck driver sways in the wind. Very very quietly. With her heart.
Everything has been this way for a very long time.
“We should’ve just gone to the lake,” says the hitchhiker. Just before she bites down again.
The truck driver nods. But says nothing.
THREE ERASURES : SARA ADAMS
"Passion is what drives me to do things that have no distinct evolutionary purpose. Side jobs that cost money instead of rounding out the schoolteacher salary. Moving too often and to places that don't necessarily make sense. Avoiding social situations in order to spend more time pouring glitter over Stephen King novels."
Sara Adams is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including, most recently, "Western Diseases" (dancing girl press) and "Poems for Ivan" (Porkbelly Press).
NOTE : Each of these poems is an erasure from "Cujo" by Stephen King, using one page from the book & glitter.
"Pitchfork" // from : King, Stephen. Cujo. Viking Press, 1981. P. 47.
"Time Passed" // from : King, Stephen. Cujo. Viking Press, 1981. P. 3.
"Sag" // from : King, Stephen. Cujo. Viking Press, 1981. P. 187.
On The Road : Unbuckling The Bible Belt
"I got that cigarette dancing down its filter, 15 browser tabs open, the upcoming issue of Fuck Art, Let’s Dance’s self-love mixtape playing, & a hell of a ramble spilling out after Miami hacked us up like an exhausted lougie thru the asphalt esophagus of Eisenhower's Interstate America towards Kansas City. "
[ entry coming soon ]
TWO POEMS : Jordan Hoxsie
"Passion is the wind that walks through every dream."
Jordan Hoxsie is the founder of Varsity Goth, works as the Social Media Editor for Reality Beach, and are the author of the poetry mini-chapbook "cry lightning" (Ghost City Press, 2016) and "you walk exposed" (self-published, 2016). Their work has been featured in Uut Poetry, MICRO//MACRO, Nauseated Drive, and elsewhere. Their work has appeared in Babe Soda Zine, MICRO//MACRO, Nauseated Drive, and elsewhere. They tweet @jordanhoxsie.
POSE
my hair hates hurting others
my hair swallowed your butter knife
but only to incubate it
i dreamt that a hawk swooped down
to be my new hat
please be my barber
i don’t want to die with a mullet
i dreamt that steam leaked through my neck
like i was a sex doll
overinflated with machismo
i dreamt that politicians were simmering my brain
and that’s when the lightbulb split open
my hair swallowed your butter knife
but only to incubate it
i dreamt that a hawk swooped down
to be my new hat
please be my barber
i don’t want to die with a mullet
i dreamt that steam leaked through my neck
like i was a sex doll
overinflated with machismo
i dreamt that politicians were simmering my brain
and that’s when the lightbulb split open
SILK
the pelt of rain is your first massage
a spider in the shower
absent gods spill forth as graph paper
you feel shame to have evolved
without fangs large enough
to pierce human skin
a spider in the shower
absent gods spill forth as graph paper
you feel shame to have evolved
without fangs large enough
to pierce human skin
TWO POEMS: dANIELLE pERRY
"Well. What is passion? Passion is two sides of the same coin.
Passion is how sweet desire can be and how easily it can be turned against you."
Passion is how sweet desire can be and how easily it can be turned against you."
Danielle Perry won't say whether or not she controls the moon. Her work has previously been published in The Toast, FLAPPERHOUSE, and Potluck Magazine, among others. She probably spends too much time on Twitter (@jekyllian).
the feast that never was
|
you asked me to kill you
because you knew i would say no but now i am wondering: what would have happened if i had said yes? (i should have said yes)
how much pain would have been averted
if i had said yes and made my palms red with your blood i should have let myself dig into your rabbit-flesh with my owl-talons |
|
may 7 // new moon in TAURUS
the drums that beat beneath your skin / call out the madness in your blood // (his fingers clenching yours like iron & you have been caught, fey-child) // you too much like testing the boundaries / of yourself // you are all sharp edges / whetted on trauma & solitude / edges which you like / to blur with overwhelm // you never blur entirely / however / you don’t lose your sense / of direction // right, left, left, left, left, left, right, right / the path through the labyrinth // at the center / a woman with horns like the barest crescent moon // trust, / she says, / as though it were easy / as though it were everything // as though she knows how / you trick yourself / how you set yourself up / for the harrowing / how you love it / how you court it / like you were the chevalier mal fet
On The Road : Sugar-Loaded Freight To The Bay
"Dangerous Thinking w/ The Arts Resistance is an eclectic batch of burlesque + poems + ballet + crac-monologues + anti-fascism + howling at both moon & sun."
[ entry coming soon ]
two poems : jessie janeshek
"Passion stirs stars into the furred cauldron."
Jessie Janeshek's second full-length book of poems, "The Shaky Phase", is forthcoming from Stalking Horse Press. Her chapbooks are "Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish" (Grey Book Press), "Rah-Rah Nostalgia" (dancing girl press), and "Hardscape" (Reality Beach, forthcoming), and "Invisible Mink" (Iris Press) is her first full-length collection.
Commitment sensibility/numb beauty box
Go there/throwback trap
ONE POEM : DANIELLE Marie CLARK
"Passion is a great crash of collaboration between people with whom the fire burns. Passion is the fuel that welcomes creators to create, that invites those who are afraid to move forward. Passion is the peace that comes after a job well done and the thread that snags the plans and pulls us all together."
Danielle Marie Clark is a poet in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is the founder of the Writers Under Thirty Reading Series at Great Lakes Commonwealth of Letters and the 2015 Recipient of the Grand Valley Poetry Prize.
Entre cielos y el mundo
It’s the feeling of stripping skin
knowing the pull
&
expecting the sting
and realizing nothing is born
without stretching.
knowing the pull
&
expecting the sting
and realizing nothing is born
without stretching.
TWO PIECES : Kerry Rawlinson
"roots #5"
Decades ago, autodidact kerry rawlinson gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil. Fast-forward: she now follows poetry and art’s muses, barefoot, winning contests (e.g. Geist; Mississippi Valley) and featuring in literary publications, eg. Main Street Rag; CanLit; Minola Review; 3Elements Review; pioneertown; AdHoc Fiction; Adirondack Review.
"osprey #3"
|
"Actually—I was torn between two versions of it. I'd recently watched a video of Terri Trespicio ("Stop Searching For Your Passion"); advocating just putting one foot in front of the next (if you find you have no drive or ambition for anything specific). She worked her ass off doing something she'd just fallen into because she had no idea at all what her "passion" was, or should be. And I get that. Because seriously - who could earn a proper living as a poet or artist? Really? So unless you slog your butt off to get you to a place where you can truly engage your "passion" (like me)—well... keep working your ass off."
|
TWO pOEMS : AMANDA DISSINGER
"...passion is having a constant hunger for someone or something that can never be quenched."
Amanda Dissinger is a Brooklyn based poet who writes about the city, loneliness, pop culture and broken relationships. She released her first book of poetry "This is How I Will Tell You I Love You" via Bottlecap Press in May 2015, and an ebook "It's Fine, I'm Fine, I Think I'm Fine" on Ghost City Press in July 2016. She has also been published on Potluck Mag, Spy Kids Review, The Legendary, Abrams Books/Poetry Bomb, Fog Machine, and many more. She's the current poetry editor of Vagabond City Literature. Her second book of poetry will be released in early 2017.
Rapid Fire
Made a robot out of boxes that looked like you
it spouted off facts about hardcore bands, coffee grinders and how you never
meant for us to get so intense,
wore its hair slicked back
go as fast as you wanna be with everyone else
Lie about the way you can make your voice sound and what metal your heart is
made out of
you fell in love too fast, like someone pushed you
And we are opposites, what I mean when i say I'm the definition of
commitment and I don't wanna change
I got that kinda charm that will be make you second guess your choices in a
heartbeat
Use all your best lines on me, but you only have one chance
You are a product of the Internet
I never saw what I wanted to at the dinner table, then and now
Display all the naked photos I sent you in a gallery
Display the last of my kindness so you can prove that someone amazing can love
you,
Even if you never held up your end of the bargain
it spouted off facts about hardcore bands, coffee grinders and how you never
meant for us to get so intense,
wore its hair slicked back
go as fast as you wanna be with everyone else
Lie about the way you can make your voice sound and what metal your heart is
made out of
you fell in love too fast, like someone pushed you
And we are opposites, what I mean when i say I'm the definition of
commitment and I don't wanna change
I got that kinda charm that will be make you second guess your choices in a
heartbeat
Use all your best lines on me, but you only have one chance
You are a product of the Internet
I never saw what I wanted to at the dinner table, then and now
Display all the naked photos I sent you in a gallery
Display the last of my kindness so you can prove that someone amazing can love
you,
Even if you never held up your end of the bargain
Post-Life
I had a dream recently where all my ex-loves were having dinner together
I implicated you early
You were wearing your lakers hat with your best suit
And I loved you so fiercely before I even knew how to love
I had a dream that the last time my nose bled I saw God
I saw all the things I could have changed in the world before I changed my mind
at the last second
I saw an open door and ten thousand different futures
I had a dream that my father was still funny
He played the hari Krishna joke
And my grandmother could still comprehend
I had a dream that I changed your name to beautiful
And you changed my name to beautiful
And we put all the records on and we just let them spin,
We just watched them spin
I implicated you early
You were wearing your lakers hat with your best suit
And I loved you so fiercely before I even knew how to love
I had a dream that the last time my nose bled I saw God
I saw all the things I could have changed in the world before I changed my mind
at the last second
I saw an open door and ten thousand different futures
I had a dream that my father was still funny
He played the hari Krishna joke
And my grandmother could still comprehend
I had a dream that I changed your name to beautiful
And you changed my name to beautiful
And we put all the records on and we just let them spin,
We just watched them spin
THREE PHOTOGRAPHS : Nathan Tompkins
"Fairy Light"
"Irish Christmas Tree"
|
"My definition of passion....this is a difficult thing....but passion is when I feel when I stand before a microphone sharing my words, and listening to the gasps from the audience, or when I look at lights on dark roads, and think how I might photograph them and play with them in order to create art, or when I look at my daughter's own artwork."
Nathan Tompkins is a writer and photographer living in Portland, Oregon, though he will always call North Idaho home. His work has appeared in Menacing Hedge, NonBinary Review, and Full of Crow. He's the author of four chapbooks, most recently "Lullabies to a Whiskey Bottle" and "A Song of Chaos".
|
"Smoking Moon"
On The Road : Snarling Dogs Paw 3am
"There aren't photos of those snarling canines because I reached for mace instead of a camera."
[ entry coming soon ]
THREE PHOTOGRAPHS : JONATHON O. NiCOLOFF
"Passion is the phantom itch that arouses fornication and fist-fights, so deep in the flesh that it has to be rooted out with a cutlass. It is the zest of life that brings forth the need to fly down a mountain & dive into the sea. Passion is a pearl of flame that is kindling for a worthwhile life."
"Street Fighter"
Jonathan Orion Nicoloff is a recent college grad from University of California Santa Barbara, currently an expat living in Egypt. Moving on to Australia and Southeast Asia in the spring. Just wandering through the world looking for everyday wonders and new ways to maximize life.
"Collision"
"Double Helix"
ONE PIECE : George Salis
"Passion is that which consumes you during every waking moment and every sleep-laced thought. Passion is the siren call that makes the bone-breaking dash against the rocks a masochistic pleasure. Passion can't be ignored or contained."
George Salis received a B.A. in English and psychology from Stetson University, and has won awards for his fiction and journalism. His fiction is featured or forthcoming in The Missing Slate, Black Heart Magazine, CultureCult Magazine, NILVX, Crab Fat Magazine, and elsewhere. He has taught in Bulgaria and recently finished his first novel.
Wrecked Vehicle found, person missing
Yesterday, in a secluded region of the forest, approximately 46 feet from I-95, a Mazda 626 was found crashed into a tree. Local authorities suspect that the accident may have occurred within the past week. “There’s no rust, no major plant growth on the vehicle, everything’s just about fresh,” said Deputy Ben Rinehart.
Spotted by a trucker who had been relieving himself on the side of the highway, the totaled vehicle contained no one, living or dead. “We know at least a young woman, one Hellen Philips, was involved,” explained Deputy Rinehart, who excavated a purse from the floor of the passenger side. The shattering of the windshield, and the fact that the seat belt was undone but not torn or broken, suggests that the driver was hurled forward and outward. In addition, experts noted bloodstained pieces of glass that had been launched as much as 101 feet from the front of the vehicle.
Coroners were not present to provide commentary, but body collector Preston Cross, dumfounded, said, “I’ve never seen anything like this. Believe me, I’ve seen some [expletive] things, but not like this.”
As of now, a search party has been procured, including tracking dogs, and is implementing a systematic search of the area. Charles Philips, Iraq war veteran and husband of the missing—who reported her disappearance six days ago, confirming Deputy Rinehart’s speculation on the time frame—is forming a second search party and encourages any community members to join him.
When inquired about the body, Mr. Cross added, “For all we know she’s alive and out there, at least that’s what we’re hoping. But other things are known to happen in these here woods. Terrible [expletive] things.”
No foul play is suspected.
***
UPDATE : HELLEN PHILIPS STILL MISSING
After two weeks, investigators are still puzzled by the disappearance of Hellen Philips. Her vehicle was found off the side of I-95 a week after it was totaled in an accident.
“We found three promising leads,” said Deputy Ben Rinehart, “but they have given us more questions than answers.”
Professional trackers found three separate trails beginning at the wreckage of the vehicle. Two of these trails were composed of footprints matching the height and weight of Hellen Philips.
The first trail, which authorities and experts originally found most promising, indicated that Hellen had been dragged by someone much bigger and heavier, most likely a man. A struggle was evident, and then she must have been subdued, because the scraping of her heels into the dirt was preceded by backward boot prints, which were the most obvious indicators of foul play.
“We thought we might have a murder case on our hands, which is what we’re used to discovering in situations of such mystery, but we followed the trail to a rundown shack. It just sat there in the clearing. When we got there, it was full of rusty tools, nothing that tells us Hellen, or anyone for that matter, had been there. No one in a long time.”
The second trail took a direct route toward the beach, then into the ocean.
“The footprints on the beach had somehow turned the sand into glass, but even those prints ended as soon as they hit the water. If she drowned or is swimming out there, we don’t know yet. But this situation brought the need for coastguard assistance.”
“As we followed the third pair, we knew something was wrong,” explained Rinehart. “The footprints in the mud got smaller and smaller, until the markings broke into a crawl, like that of a baby, then disappeared.”
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