Category: Issue 12

MEDUSA

On a beach writing about a basement window, can’t you read me like crying
What flows thru her animals

Medusa
they
of
manuscripts
or sings
of debt flowing
thru her animals
not completely
human
Shake the tail
to shake the frog loose
newborn

government
termagant
Darger girls inroading
on-a-tear
Can’t you read me crying
I have really good
credit

They amazon
name u hellcat
They recorded

They monster
hideous
viewers

I don’t resent the stones I’m born up
I don’t fear a rented
death
What does lash mean
Imaging ur on the whale
surface
Air
Valentine Air
They
sign
Holidays of the mind
Holidays

Newborn govt
I cradle you in a mushroom of the
mind
You cradle me in the sliding chasms
of my fracking heart

Bank accts unfolded AS THOUGH this INDIV cld be
reconstructed in a long wave
AS THOUGH to wave to the voice of the
snakes

are
they
form
blurred
we party soon
ONE SNAKE
keep the Form posted
keep it shared and
stupid

so we’d BREAK its subtle surface
and breach for undocumented reasons
WE DROP TO OUR KNEES
WE ARE EXHAUSTED
WE ARE AT THE MAGIC HOUR
WE WEEP WITH GRATITUDE

***

Brooke Ellsworth is author of the chapbooks Thrown (The New Megaphone) and Mud (dancing girl press).  She currently lives in Queens, NY.

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LIFESEND

The golden fowl starts first thing. My whole life depends on you, I prayed like peach pits lined up on the porch, to dry […] thread into a torc or

in the network of Historia Animalium the animal runs alongside human invention.  This is what

*****************************************anachronistic

*****************************************Me trying to turn you on with song

*****************************************I am chicken mad

*****************************************What more would you know about me

*****************************************if you knew about my fantasies (going to Hell w/ my dog)
*****************************************[…] My, the summer drags

*****************************************As I write the uk Prime Minister is suspected of having
*****************************************ordered destruction of journalist’s hard drives

***

Brooke Ellsworth is author of the chapbooks Thrown (The New Megaphone) and Mud (dancing girl press).  She currently lives in Queens, NY.

shrapnel

at night we fall asleep
to the drumbeat of fire
bullets ricochet off sand
dunes, mountains echo
and we wonder: what is the size
of the future?
the maps here are forever
unfinished, every phone call
a grenade, we forfeit
festivals and beach time
while mothers measure the space
between the towel and the bomb
shelter and fathers hang their bullet
proof vests out to dry, soldiers
on buses trade stories
about corpses, smartphones
the newest form of rumor
mill, sirens sound in our dreams
and we see plants growing
in windows and shoes, hanging
from rooftops and lovers who sleep
undisturbed in the same beds
dreams like chandeliers that
shatter crystal shrapnel
hold me down, my love
under these impossible stars
press your dirty mouth to mine
the cedars cost too much here
and there is never enough water
to wash anything away

 

***

 

Rena Rossner is a graduate of the Writing Seminars program at The Johns Hopkins University. She also holds degrees from Trinity College Dublin and McGill University. She currently works as a literary and foreign rights agent at The Deborah Harris Agency in Jerusalem, Israel. Her poetry and short fiction has been published or is forthcoming from Carve Magazine, Midwest Quarterly, The Mayo Review, Thin Air Magazine, Rattle, Chicago Literati, Arc 23, JewishFiction.net and more. Her cookbook, Eating the Bible, has been translated into 5 language and is published by Skyhorse Press.

the dead

the dead come dropping down
this time of year, as tanks pass
through neighborhoods of
flame, causing traffic jams
the radio plays questions:
when was your last kiss?
can a tank be a poem?
do airplanes fall in fields
of sunflowers?
everything that was once
new, has become our future
there are no clear paths to the sea
where lovers roll naked
in sand, and hotel strips
and bars are still taking down
the screens from World Cup
dreams, where roses grow
in ashtrays and last sunsets
fade into sorbet, summer
haze is burning steel
and camouflage now, every tire
a weapon, the mass destruction
of clouds mar our skies, as breaths
expand and wind contracts, the years
take themselves apart, hot
like bonfires on mountain-tops
smoke signals and the nightly
sound of gunfire or fireworks
you pick. give me your alcoholic
stars, your burned-out flocks of home-
made rockets, ice-popsicles and dreams
tell me: do televisions lie?
the wind is granulated here
cities are burning
when was your last kiss?

 

 

***

 

Rena Rossner is a graduate of the Writing Seminars program at The Johns Hopkins University. She also holds degrees from Trinity College Dublin and McGill University. She currently works as a literary and foreign rights agent at The Deborah Harris Agency in Jerusalem, Israel. Her poetry and short fiction has been published or is forthcoming from Carve Magazine, Midwest Quarterly, The Mayo Review, Thin Air Magazine, Rattle, Chicago Literati, Arc 23, JewishFiction.net and more. Her cookbook, Eating the Bible, has been translated into 5 language and is published by Skyhorse Press.

Chaosmosis Engine

Financial Black Hole and the Vanishing World

When crisis seems more crisis
than economics the collapse

of dangers is replaced
in the machine by awakening

hidden nights of rage in English
suburbs. Algorithmic spells

of cognitive labor, intellect
dispossessed of the erotic.

Automatism of the human
swarm . The happy ending

is hypercomplex interfaces
trapped in inescapable

patterns. Invasion of the possible.
Financial obligation is a swarm.

Your rebellion is irrelevant,
is a swarm provoked by debt

of the symbolic family. Privatization
of dependence means more

information means less meaning.
The escape of the word

into financial formats.
Parthogenesis:

***

Semio-Inflation

Signs
**************without
*******flesh
realized
*******through
*********************search
**************engines.

A sphere of hyperinclusion.
*******The magic
of value without muscular
work dissolving products
**************into motors.
Voice reactivation.

Abandonment of the emotional.
The desiring force reduced
*******to protocols.
The voice is reemergence
**************of recombinability.

*******Sensuousness exploding.
An infinite slippage of sensuousness.
The monstruous singularity
cannot be compassionate,

*******open to becoming
other. A desert enunciation.
Poison of daily life. The oil

of eviction. Perturbation in response
to perturbation. Autonomy:

**************the ability to escape.

***

Future Exhaustion and Happy Frugality

Chaosmosis is the network,******* polysemy of mimickry.

Scriptural machines and their avatars exchange voice

for submission.********************* An umbilical of extrinsic

coordinates at the junction of ambiguity and standardization.

Enunciation is the rhizome. *******The disaster of subjectivity.

The subjectivity of disaster******* An acceleration of loneliness.

Extinction is finite.******* Desire, infinite.******* The sensitive

organism is the threshold.******* We cannot think. We cannot

say.******* What we cannot say is the world.******* The world

resides in language.******* Digital finance is a closed reality.

A new barbarism.******* The violence of finitude.

The ironic act traversing the logic of excess.******* The game

to create,******* to play,********************* to shuffle, a mechanism

to disentangle age and act************** from the limits of debt.

*Sections titles are extracted from Franco “Bifo” Berardi’s “The Uprising. Lines are reconfigurations and erasures from the same text.

***

Vincent Toro has an MFA in poetry from Rutgers University. He is winner of the 2015 Sawtooth Poetry Prize and is recipient of a Poet’s House Emerging Poets Fellowship and a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry. His poems have been published in The Buenos Aires Review, The Acentos Review, Codex, The Journal, and in the anthologies CHORUS: A Literary Mixtape, and The Waiting Room Reader 2. He lives and teaches in The Bronx with his wife, writer and scholar Dr. Grisel Acosta. His collection, “Stereo.Island.Mosaic.” is forthcoming in January 2016 from Ahasahta Press.

Mercator Projections

Nancy Flynn

***

Nancy Flynn grew up on the Susquehanna River in northeastern Pennsylvania, spent many years on a downtown creek in Ithaca, New York, and now lives near the mighty Columbia in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship and the James Jones First Novel Fellowship. Poetry chapbooks include The Hours of Us (2007) and Eternity a Coal’s Throw (2012); her book-length collection, Every Door Recklessly Ajar, was published by Cayuga Lake Books in June 2015. Her website is www.nancyflynn.com.

[IS]LAND

Into a yellowing spring. I now see

Eleven years into my adulthood

I am a woman who will empty herself

Of resistance upon encounter of light,

Of any color.

I do not hesitate to drive, or even walk,

In the direction of deep shades

Of zodiacal darkening. Of the hot

Pink electronic emptiness

Released in any neighbor’s window. What is worse is when
An area
Unexpectedly unlocks, whitens and blinds. I

Am unlikely to open my own mail. Unbound,

I like to live
Lightly, in love with loosed earth, unlimited

To dirt, demarcated not by roots or the limbs

Of other’s trees, but by fallen leaves, the wash
Off graves. I know I sound like a little ghoul
Girl but too often I want to stand at a platform, a sub

Way structure ajar into winter and not wish for other

Seasons or times, of course I have lived all these

Years under and I am committed to understanding

The intent of animals with eyes not opened
Up all the way. Moles, little rock babies, unhaired

Fatty mammals don’t differentiate between

Dream and day, do not invent a thing like
A curtain. What is furniture except another
Apparatus
A way to insist on eating inside a human house? I

Try harder & I try higher to send sounds through
The tubes & tunnels that access womanish words, I

Pull closed the shower door, I cover my nails beds
With lacquer and shine and in another effort at imposs

Ible peopling, I speak and sound like ideas. Red, pink
Plastic carnations, photos, other fancy trash

Flooded out from the uppermost monuments

Fence the edges of the memory garden. Far
Away a flying thing rings itself with its own

Feathers, it takes hours and it takes hours and

It happens everyday and as I approach the season
Of the extension of the light

I try also
To enter the circlet, to be not only surrounded but touched

***

Candice Wuehle is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in Iowa City, Iowa where she has taught rhetoric and creative writing at The University of Iowa. She holds a Masters in Literature from the University of Minnesota and is a PhD candidate at the University of Kansas.

Her work can be found in “The Volta”, “NOO”, “Fairy Tale Review”, “BlazeVOX”, “SOFTBLOW”, “Smoking Glue Gun”, “Quarter After Eight”, “Similar:Peaks::” and “The Sonora Review”. Candice’s first chapbook, “cursewords”, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press.