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issue 01. 

​Three Days In Joshua Tree by Jennifer Lothrigel + Juliana Tattoli

6/16/2019

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Juliana Tattoli

I read a Pima creation story that began,
“In the beginning there was only darkness.”

I saw a shooting star leap
from one end of the Earth to the other,
waving her long tadpole tail,
her giant head leading the way to burn-out.
So close, it could fall into my lap.

I met a man named Garth with praying mantis eyes
who lived off the land for thirty-eight years in a teepee.
Large gemstone rings on every finger,
he told me the secret to life is
to ‘keep it simple.’

The Cholla cactus can produce new growth
from any part of its ombre body.
Luminescent light yellow tips caught the afternoon light,
beam out amongst a cloudy deep gray sky.
Spiked round stems taper off to red, then orange,
then lower on its body become auburn,
and finally at its base, completely black.

The Yucca Moth works from sunset to midnight
when Joshua Tree blooms spread open
like summer windows receiving the warm night.
She deposits a small amount of pollen collected
onto the flower’s ovary
so it produces the seeds she needs to feed her larvae.
​
How will I bloom fruit from emptiness?
“Keep it simple” he said.
I descended from primal jelly ooze

Jennifer Lothrigel

is a poet and artist in the San Francisco Bay area.  Her chapbook 'Pneuma' was published last year through Liquid Light Press.  Her work has also been published in Arcturus, Deracine, Rag Queen Periodical, Peeking Cat Poetry, We'Moon and elsewhere. 

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Juliana Tattoli

 is an artist. She loves traveling.  Her instagram is @julianatattoli 

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Mad Woman by Sol Camarena Medina

6/14/2019

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All of the women poets who committed suicide stab my chest like wheat spikes
to my calves, like nails to the cross, like forget-me-not thorns
if forget-me-nots grew thorns.

My belly
sleeps like snakes, which is to say, it is always on guard. My sides
bleed the color of poppies
and I’m wearing a corollary of half-lit Universes on my back.

The fire burning you from within never
lights up your footsteps at night – shadows, however, pounce
on your pupils and devour
what’s left of your iris.

Madness that smells of musty rooms
isn’t my kind of madness. My kind of madness
are open rooms at a house nobody inhabits anymore
air leaking through a broken window
and pinning petals in vibrant colors
to the knobs of doors nobody closed.

The flight of the birds
leaves a trace of daytime dreams.
​
Flying is overrated – us, for once, we want
our feet on the land and land somewhere else
but
on our eyelids.
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Sol Camarena Medina

is a mad, feminist lesbian from Valencia, Spain who's also a loud laugher and lover. she was born in 1997 and she’s self-published two poetry books in Spanish + her poems are part of an anthology of Valencian women poets self-published by FEA Feminista. she’s also written on mental health & feminism for Spanish magazines + she runs a blog, Pensando en Lila, an online platform for contemporary women artists, @artebruja and she’s co-editor for Spanish online feminist magazine La Gorgona.

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Ghost Train Body by Jennifer Lothrigel

6/13/2019

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One night I rode her
through Los Angeles.

There was an older Turkish
woman seated behind me,
gently humming, feverishly
knitting a blue scarf with shaky hands.

Seated next to her,
a woman
with her shirt pulled down
under her left breast,
was feeding a baby boy.

An androgynous teenager
swaying their hands back and forth
like a river
and following them with their neck
sat beside me.

Soon,
the teen leaned their head on my shoulder,
I leaned on their head,
I joined my right hand to the back of their left hand,
we flowed our hands
back and forth
as one invincible fish.

The Turkish woman,
fumbled the unfinished scarf around
the mother and child,
the loose threads resting in her lap.

Jennifer Lothrigel ​

is a poet and artist in the San Francisco Bay area.  Her chapbook 'Pneuma' was published last year through Liquid Light Press.  Her work has also been published in Arcturus, Deracine, Rag Queen Periodical, Peeking Cat Poetry, We'Moon and elsewhere. 

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three poems: God / Lie Down / Be Holy by Kel Massey

6/12/2019

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God

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Lie Down

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Be Holy

“Where are you going?” asks the angel,
and I don’t normally stop walking and
take a headphone out for just any street vendor but here we are/
“Home.” I say, and bring the headphone
just a little closer to my ear
as incentive for them to hurry up/
“That’s a long walk.” and I know I never told them
where I live but sometimes
angels say things you just have to move on from/
“Yup.” and I start to walk away
without putting the headphone back in my ear
(I consider myself merciful for this)/
“I have wings... and halos!” they shout
but I don’t trust stolen holiness
so I step back into the flow of bodies and continue walking,
ignoring the twin scars on our backs//

Kel Massey ​

is a non-binary writer from Baltimore currently working on their bachelor's degree in English. They enjoy strong coffee, big jackets, and crying over actual play podcasts. You can find them @knife_orange on twitter.

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anxiety + me by Aiden Nimer

6/11/2019

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it gets harder to breathe with each passing day
heart beating faster, flooding the veins
that feed my brain, my blood wrapping its
goddamn suffocating hands around my throat and
reaching up over my face, a tender embrace

i never asked for this
never asked for all the heartbeats and the breathing
never asked for the warmth of a pulse, see
no one gave a thought to the cold when they made me
when they reached in and reached out to find me
and when they put a collar on my soul and handed the leash
off to whatever still lurks behind me
driving me
they never thought they were doing a bad thing
they thought they were helping
they thought that when they took me from nowhere with nothing
and put me somewhere with something
they were working miracles
because making something out of nothing is a miracle, right?
is it a miracle or is it just blasphemy?
they thought they were helping
they thought they were god

but to pluck me out of stars and cage me
is no godly act
life could’ve been so beautiful but
i’m stuck here pulling at the leash
fighting against the rope around my throat so hard that i
can’t fucking breathe
and i can barely see but i’ll stay on my feet
because i won’t go back to nothing
i’ll take this misery, this loneliness, this burning in my chest
i’ll take this blasphemy and turn it into something freed
because you must also know warmth to feel yourself freeze
i’ll show them what a goddamn miracle is

my miracle today is that
thought it hurts to breathe
i puff my chest out anyway.
i may have never asked to be born but
now that i’m here i refuse to step away.
step down. no, i
refuse to die.

​
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Aiden Nimer

has pulled himself back together when falling apart through music and writing. He loves art and storytelling in every form, and this love is matched only by his love for his pets. May come off as somewhat intimidating, but really he’s kind of a softie. ​Find his writing blog at smokenhoney.tumblr.com.

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dead names by Aiden Nimer

6/10/2019

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don’t ever tattoo a name, names change
you can get a drawing or a symbol or a phrase but
never a name, names change
don’t take my name,
don’t make it yours, don’t make it say
who i am or who i’ll be, that’s not my name
what’s my name? you’ve never known it so
don’t you dare tattoo my name
hear my complaint, i’ll say it plain
don’t ever tattoo a name, names change
you can get a drawing or a symbol or a phrase but
never a name, names change
who you think i am is not the same
as who i really am, in my brain
reach down the sink and ask my heart,
“what’s your name?”
it’ll say “who are you to ask for such a thing?
that’s my creation, my impersonation
my identity to maintain
i’ll never fake it, never tell you
‘til you promise not to take it
nor mistake it for an open door, for conversations
through the floor. don’t say my name.”
so don’t you ever tattoo a name, names change
you can get a drawing or a symbol or a phrase but
never a name, names change
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Aiden Nimer

has pulled himself back together when falling apart through music and writing. He loves art and storytelling in every form, and this love is matched only by his love for his pets. May come off as somewhat intimidating, but really he’s kind of a softie. ​Find his writing blog at smokenhoney.tumblr.com.

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two poems: An Ocean + a Fanboy by Neal Andrei Lalusin

6/9/2019

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Undella

stare blankly towards the sea
maybe remember how much beauty
could divide you from your love

hear waves wash ashore
broken shells that its currents tore
as you yearn for the home you have

my love will find you
but i don't know if my touch will
for this monument that calls itself sea
is a spiteful beauty

and i will never know
​if i will be strong enough to swim its miles
just to hold you

but maybe just stare blankly towards the sea
​
and remember how much you long for me
before you know it

my love will find you

Fanboy

Hold on, let me recollect myself
I'll gather up my clothes and words before I start
Take it all along with breath and put it in a shelf
​Then I can finally pick myself apart

Now I'll myself slip in a few words
​
Try to hold on to a squeal and then to a thread
Hold on, let me recollect myself
Before I stand in front of you, trying not to be dead

Since I've been waiting for so long, the hair has grown long too
​
I guess now is the right time to say "It's so nice to finally meet you"

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two poems: Unstoried / The Rodin Exhibit by Mary Ann Honaker

6/7/2019

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unstoried

I would like to be divested of this idea of narrative,
that the plot of my life has turns it should or will make,
that I am arcing upwards as if toward a summit.
Let me instead be as directionless as a tree,

like pines flicking their feathery plumes outside
my window, whose thoughts are so large
and voices so long we cannot discern them,
who move so slowly no one can tell,

and move only to better taste of the sun.
Story is a tyranny: this getting things done,
how one event begets another, a logical sequence,
how end & meaning & purpose are the same.

Let me lose this word meaning. I desire
obsolescence, or to have a purpose incidental,
of which I am not aware; as a tree bends
to wind & searches for sun, and soothes us,
​
speedy beasts, with the blessing of being
silent, and living, and emphatically there.

 THE RODIN EXHIBIT, Peabody Essex, Salem, MA

​Here we have, among folds of fabric, a single hand. In this glass case, an arm. Notice the natural articulation of fingers. My lover adds more than the placards tell, happy to use his first degree for something. I honestly think it would be nothing if I left. I rest my chin on my hand and pull a serious moue in front of The Thinker, one of who knows how many. Rodin made molds you know, and cast and recast every image. The materials could change-- bronze, marble, plaster-- but the fingers are the same, the relaxed gesture. I've no makeup, and my fat shorts on, a faded tee from the Film Festival, but he'll use this image as a screen saver for months. Camille cast this arm again and again; her lover fused it to her body, or another woman's. I'm replaceable, you see, a human of a certain form, and another of the same mold would do as nicely. Calves and feet. A repeatable head. I'm indistinguishable from another.
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​Mary Ann Honaker

is the author of It Will Happen Like This (YesNo Press, 2015). Her work has appeared in 2 Bridges, Drunk Monkeys, Euphony, Juked, Little Patuxent Review, Off the Coast, Van Gogh’s Ear, and elsewhere, and has been nominated for a Pushcart prize. Mary Ann holds an MFA in creative writing from Lesley University. She currently lives in Beckley, West Virginia, where she enjoys hiking the mountain trails.

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ode to teeth by Vaish Peddapalli

6/7/2019

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when i was five years old, i had a loose tooth.
i pulled it out, my fingers shaking, mouth filling up with blood.
i could barely see the baby tooth peeping out of all the blood and pulp
and gum.

it felt right.

when i was older, i went to a dentist. she pulled
it out swiftly but gently, soothed it with cotton gauze.
and she asked me something important—  
do you want to keep it?

i said yes.

she gave me a plastic capsule and i kept my tooth in it.
tiny thing, rootless

if i had a moment to myself in this fleeting world, it would be
the tease of tonguing at a loose tooth. the fear of pulling it out
and the relief, the gum, the baby tooth and
everything everything everything i was as a young girl.

if i had a moment to myself, it would be poolside,
swimming under the night sky, the isolation,
the stars and water
flowing over my outstretched hands.

if i had a moment to myself, it would be alone,
my bicycle and the gentle rumble of the trains moving by.
the tracks and the shake of the earth.
me on my knees and the moss
and feeling like i’ve been cheated out of everything.

i don’t have coherency these days.

i just have books i haven’t read in three years,
my heart feeling like a
freshly squeezed kumquat (do people even know those).
strings and strings.

i keep everything i ever remember backed up on this 500GB hard drive.
it’s never been enough honestly.

i’m raw and i say that all the time, but i always mean it.
i’m raw as bitter neem twigs, as unripe mango, like pineapples.
(kadva)

i feel like tunnel vision. i feel like grabbing words
by their shoulders and
beating them into submission, so they'd say what i mean,
so they'd tell other people how wrong i am, everywhere.
so they promise me a backbone,
promise me scaffolding, a brace, all metal and steel.

even in the afternoon daze, i feel alone. blazing bright suns but nothing
nothing stays. i’m grasping at straws.
if i look into the mirror i don't see myself.
i see red and the visible silhouette
of ache and loss.

what do you want?
is it my black heart, shrivelled and love-guzzling.
or is it my tongue, too sharp for the cold morning.
you never make a sound,
i can’t tell when you sink your fingernails into the rungs of my ribs.

the earth is too cruel. she snaps at my ankles and i let her.
maybe i shouldn't dwell on the loneliness shrouding herself around my
shoulders, squeezing my eyes shut but it's hard
not to when it pressed at
all the gaps in me. all i taste is the rush of faint ringing
in this bright room,
the sun illuminating how wrong i feel all the time.

razamand, i wear sanata over me like a coat.

but i’m flotsam. i’m the sound of calling out into an open field and
hearing back your lonely voice in return.
i’m the sound of waves cresting
over rock formations, of earth shifting.
the sound of white noise when you
switch to that one channel on cable.

i’m still rootless, after all these years.
i can feel my wisdom teeth
right under the surface, stupid sharp, painfully sharp. mean.
i can feel them cutting into gums, hard right under the thin skin.

maybe i’ll have to pull them loose, torrid and sweltering,
malevolent and bloody.

maybe i won’t. maybe they’ll still, and i’ll be still.



kadva— bitter (hindi)
razamand— will, agreement, consent (urdu)
sanata— calm, tranquil silence, stillness (urdu/hindi)

​Vaish Peddapalli

is a 17 year old student and occasional poet. Vaish has been writing poetry for nearly 4 years now, and infrequently dabbles in prose. She loves analyzing poetry and appreciating others' works. Vaish usually is found taking photos of the skyline or jotting poetry down on her Notes app. ​Her poetry collection, Teeth and Bone, debuted this month.

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Small Crucifixions by Paul Ilechko

6/4/2019

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Paul Ilechko

is the author of the chapbooks “Bartok in Winter” (Flutter Press, 2018) and “Graph of Life” (Finishing Line Press, 2018). His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including Manhattanville Review, formercactus, Sheila-Na-Gig, Marsh Hawk Review and Rockvale Review. He lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ.  When he is not writing, he can usually be found going on long bike rides in the hills. 

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Cold by Margarita Serafimova

6/4/2019

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​Cold,
under falling snow,
the graves are unchallenged.
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Margarita Serafimova ​

is a finalist for the Erbacce Press Prize 2019 and 2018, Christopher Smart (Eyewear Publishing) Prize 2019, Summer Literary Seminars 2018 and 2019, Hammond House Prize 2018, Red Wheelbarrow Prize 2018, Montreal Prize 2017, has work inAgenda Poetry, London Grip, Waxwing, Trafika, A-Minor, Poetry South, Orbis, Nixes Mate, Minor Literatures, Writing Disorder. She is a sucker for diving.

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Je Peux by Serena Suson

6/3/2019

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​If I could,
I think I should like to smile
To dance among Draco and Cassiopeia
To feel my tears leave to become stars themselves
Dotting the sky with my memories
With hues of white, yellow, and blue
To have happiness as my eternal companion
Would be a wonder I could never ask for.
       
And yet
I keep wondering how I turned back that day
And anatomized the pain
How I learned not to mourn a bed of dying ashes
For it was something that once lived
I wonder
How I found myself
How I found myself in you
I wonder
Why the jays follow me in song
Why I curtsy to the flowers and dance in the rain
And why I find that pain,
Pain is something I can withstand
 
I wonder at my luck
That because of you
Terra no longer means just earth
Ebony is no longer just a color
That my words hold meaning
My kindling,
My reason for living
Because of you
Because of you
 
Je peux
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​Serena Suson

is an aspiring author from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, armed with hope and lofty dreams. She enjoys experimenting with various forms of writing, from playwriting to poetry to simple fiction, and has been published in the 2020 Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Calendar. In between writing sessions, she spends most of her time reading Jane Austen and trying to spread kindness above all else.

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    Cover Photograph by Delaney D.
    Here you will find an ocean. An insistent angel. A creative legacy. Rodin. A jar, glowing. Birds. Invincible fish. Pieces of us. Parts of you. Welcome in.

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