Thursday, March 19, 2020

Innocence, Shannon Malloy

it felt just like childhood
protruding pending puberty
hints of body odor in sweat
a training bra
the first hard-on
pre-ejaculate stains
cigarette smoke
blood stained panties
syphilis and gonorrhea.
feigning grown-up tears from
adolescent eyes
and hiding date rape
in ice cream and cotton candy

Shannon Malloy is a poet and writer living and working out of Aurora, Colorado. Her work revolves around the darker compulsions of humanity and explores the body and disfigurement. Shannon is one of few survivors of internal decapitation and she uses language to highlight the physicality of trauma. 

Molding Clay, Gabriel X. Hendrix

I have set out to build my own Rome
To use saliva into my living,
To hum another heart once the old is gone.
Learning the recipe
that started with salt and vinegar, 
with nothing left,
but fire from a candle,
the air from a balloon,
and a piece of Eden.
The challenge
is to create harmony
from inside,
it would sting
without warning
to begin by resting and growing
in the ocean’s womb.
Drinking the clouds
painful sanity
I have used my blood’s
own name;
my words are
freshly hand made.
I gather animals from
To then be in this haze
that desperately wants a host,
a body within another
as a doll filled
with cotton,
The organs are placed on the table
and the feelings begin to be nothing
more than a mystery.
The colors of tone decides to hide
from the
outside curtains,
like the array of anger
in the dim of one’s eye.
It is hard to see where one can go,
the mountains are far,
The road begins to duplicate,
reaching out to stumble
to then hear pounding of drums
that awake crows
hidden in trees.
The lights would soon
fall and like the stars
dipped in fire.
Land would finally sprout
from one single seed.

Gabriel. X. Hendrix is a poet & writer, born in Miami FL and currently attending the University of Central Florida. Hendrix will earn his B.A. in English Creative Writing. Hendrix explores the layers of grief and the struggles of identity through his writing.

To Father, R. Joseph Rodriguez

            after the ICU
after the velorio
after the rosary
after the mass
after the burial
at the camposanto
you wave adiós
you rise as a traveler
onto the next world now
seeking more tranquility
 and refills for your coldest
     most favored brews
    and aged brandies

R. Joseph Rodríguez was born and raised in Houston, Texas. He is the author of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. His most recent book project is titled This Is Our Summons Now, a poetry collection. Joseph is coeditor of English Journal. He lives in Austin, Texas. Follow him @escribescribe.

0100110 001101 Number One, dirtgod raven mack

words uncoupled regarded as data reduction
flow redacted
[01010 1111 1100 1100100101 101010]
slowed down to miniscule bits
terra bits to megabytes
terabytes of earthspeak
earth broken into parcels
attempting to comprehend the whole better
            by subdividing into infinitesimal parts
                        too small to even see
[1111111 01 01100 110011]
delving deep into data pool
            with drill function
speaking a disconnected language
            lacking primordial muck
                        which cannot ever be turned off
                                                always a little ancient space mud
                                                            left in the source code
progress’s axe refining whole
                        redefining hole
            istics ignored as lacking metrics to prove
                                    what’s felt obvious
[01010 1111 111101 011 11011]
an entire era built upon poor science
epoch billions spent manufacturing
                        blossoms upon a faulty premise
                                    promises the fault lines will never shift
                                                in fact don’t exist
                                                and we end up with
                        not bubbles burst but quaked earth
            then we analyze the rubble, shaking
our heads and we rebuild
            with tweaked variations of the same broken code
                                    “that should fix it”
[1111111010 101010 01011 1111]
            here is me
casting spells unto algorithms
esoteric life scientist
            not discounting the spirituality of robots
hoping al-Khwarizmi hears my la ilaha illallahs
            universal magnetics and
                        manmade dystopias on mass
                                    venn diagram with
                                    sitting in the middle
                                                praying against
                        bowed down
                                    praying against

Raven Mack is an American mongrel mystic poet-philosopher of the Greater Appalachian
Unorthodox tradition. Operating as a multi-media writer, poet, rapper, and artist born and
raised in Southside Virginia, he self-publishes extensively in zine, print, and digital formats to
create a labyrinth of concepts, themes, and characters that blend everyday “reality” with the
esoteric and absurd. He hosts Southern Gothic Futurist Haiku Slams across Virginia, treating art
as a means to healing broken patterns – inherited, environmental, and institutional.

Broadway & Junipero, Cain Andrade Salas

Sitting is always a reason for me to be impatient. 
On busy streets
After busy days
After trying to save a boy's life 

and waiting for a boy to finish loose ends.

Sitting is always requiring more than I want to give of my time
And it seems that the only way not to condemn my chair 
And the racket of cars passing by 
Is by writing about the tediousness of sitting here. 

I begin to sound redundant
And begin to be annoyed by the endless parade of fag hags
And gym rats with their little mutts 
And wearing their sandals, provoking fetish or my gag reflex. 

It was enough that I was able to sit, to wait
And  to text that bitch, let alone open up pages
And let loose my disgust

It's apparently some kind of miracle that will keep me from hurling my pen at the nearest homo 
Just the next bitch that walks by with a queer at the end of it's leash!

If you ever find yourself sitting at the corner of Broadway & Junipero you'll understand
I have to ramble
I don't do coherent well
It's a mess of a street

and probably a sociologist's dream

I don't see the lines drawn very clearly at this nexus of Long Beach
Nothing makes sense
It's a damn fruit salad
Fucking Frijoles and Tortilas
And those damn black beans!

Don't fucking judge me,
It's a total mess on Broadway & Junipero. 

Caín Andrade Salas is a 39 year old Leo poet and writer from East Los Angeles:

“My parents immigrated in 1980 from Mexico. I was born months after our arrival in East Los Angeles. We moved all over South East Los Angeles growing up and times were turbulent among my family. I came out once as gay in 2001 and then again as Queer in 2017. It was also at that time that I decided that I wanted everyone to pronounce my name only in Spanish. I spend my time navigating life quite chaotically and helping as many people as I can through my profession. “

Monday, December 23, 2019

Good Hunting by Sarah Hussein

Sarah Hussein is an Egyptian painter and photographer. She earned a Bachelor of Science in 2015.
Sarah has been awarded the Arab prize in fine arts in 2018 for her artwork, the Egyptian farmers. She has been awarded the sponsorship award in the xiv INTERNATIONAL EX LIBRIS COMPETITION "EX LIBRIS - EX LITTER" in Ruse (2018) for her artwork the carrier pigeon and in the International Art and Design competition 2019 (Italy) for her artwork men in the desert, and in the Women in the Arts competition 2019 (Florida) for her artwork, the difference. Sarah has participated in many local exhibitions, such as in the Youth Salon for Art in the Egyptian Opera house, at its 29th session in 2018 with her painting freedom; as well as internationally with her artwork the dancers at the Art Revolution Taipei Fair (Taiwan) 2019 and in the Venice Land Art Prize contemporary art fair (Italy) 2019.

Saturday, December 21, 2019

ANAMNESIS by Abolaji Adekeye & D.C. Wojciech

It wasn't the puppet master driving the birds further south?
Then who stands here in this shadow passing flowers through a black hole?

I apologize if all my advances were read & blue.

The dream body's strait jacket is head to toe & never has a mouth.

Whatever you do to keep civilizations off yr back.
Wherever you may find a night for these words to pass through unnoticed.

I am the flutter of dreambirds, they flatter.

Some soft beds are concrete comfort for some.
Some cumbersome tombstone to lay my hat again.

A thousand-year-old breath pausing in the doorway of an oak tree.

I am the difference between what wolf does & rabbit says.
What was taken in amnesia was given to mountains.

Do you remember the Catalinas before they were the Catalinas?
Satisfaction can only go around peacocking for so long.

I am the melody the songbird failed to learn, the riddle ponder’d
like the waters of the coconut's middle.

I'm the thorn. I'm the blood clot.
A tidal wave of fiery tongues.

"All that I am is becoming all that I am." 

I apologize if I had mistaken a wilting rose for a lovecoat.

Sugarblossoms only bout is a wayfaring drum.
Mine is a boney neck & grapefruit skin.

The secret of paradise
is never guessing the weight of yr tongue.

Abiku came and was gone.

A contradiction of hues is no armor against the amorous bees of still life.

I see what I see.
I am the monocle of Horus.
An acapella requiem to a silenced chorus.

A revolution of colors. Guillotines awash in blood.
Broken gourds & swollen saguaro.

That some come from night & some come for it.
Whether or not a gooseberry explains a promise.
Or a song becomes aperture.

When the fleeing of Wawel refuses monuments.

Was it by sundown or by moonrise—
what was spoken on the hunt will be heard by generations in the future.

Let pompous castles remember Pompeii pummeled by eruption of pumice.
What thresholds pry at the precipice of a reborn Earth—

Within the plumage preening story plucked apart by ravenous eyes.
Flowers assemble, become wreaths—thirsty raven sings a dirge to rainwater suspended midfall.

In the swollen cactus a desert struggles to flourish.

Abolaji Adekeye writes from Lagos.

D.C. Wojciech is from Sacramento, California. He edits Silver Pinion.

Source Materials:

I Am that I Am (Wikipedia)

Blackalicious Featuring Saul Williams & Lyrics Born - Release (YouTube)

Remedios Varo's 'Floral bouquet with birds, 1960' (