PC: Lexi Jude
Hylomorphism is a Subdermal Infection
Hymns of water-wheels and smokestacks
in the chronology of revelation
a kind of malignant transcendence
what are you
Communion wine flows
as piss in a diaper
each drop caught in sacral cotton
what are you
you say that the line gives rise to eidos
there’s no apex in ascending
to the depths of the dead, but
you still harbor green-plank
schooners set for shore,
what do you hope to find
amidst these chimeral meat sacks?
What do you find to hope
Just a flash of brilliance
and buffet set for reaping:
It’ll eat you up,
it’ll eat you up,
it’ll eat you up,
it’ll eat you
About The Author - Jake Bailey
Jake Bailey is a schizotypal confessionalist in Antioch University Los Angeles’ MFA program and an associate editor of Lunch Ticket. He has forthcoming work in catheXis Northwest Press, The Hellebore, Rhythm of the Bones: Dark Marrow, Neon Mariposa Magazine, The Laurel Review, and FlyPaper Magazine and has been published in The Esthetic Apostle and Prairie Light Review. Jake lives in Chicago with his girlfriend and three dogs.
PC: Amy Krencius
i will never be a zookeeper
that’s what they told me when i asked
if they’d take me to arizona. the loose bone
in my foot, accident prone, memory of a goldfish
a liability— the xrays were inconclusive
but the rattled rib was proof enough.
why fight for something
what do you consider your strengths?
nothing you could pay me for, but i am well versed in falling.
i can paint myself a pretty picture putting my carcass
on a canvas, or frag myself onto ceramic plugs the way one
performs surgery on a coral; i can be left right center
and never be able to tell you the difference.
it took me five years to learn my name.
i consider that a talent.
i misplaced my head a few times and used my weak wrists instead.
they call that ingenuity, right?
we would never fight against you,
we just wouldn’t fight for you.
i watch as your plane takes off, phoenix-bound and steel.
isn’t that the same thing, though?
my parents want me to go to therapy.
they want me to ruin a day a week
by spending a few hours in a quiver,
talking to some lady about
chemicals, horses, fish, the string theory
of the fear that i will never be loved.
they said they would pay for it.
they said they would stop helping me with rent if i didn’t go.
“we’d prefer not to, but if that’s
what it takes…” if that’s what it takes
then what does it give?
the nauseating smell of a rotten wrist?
or is it just the endless searching for the end
of a circle.
About The Author - alyssa hanna
alyssa hanna graduated from Purchase College in May 2016 with a degree in Creative Writing and a minor in History. Her poems have appeared or are upcoming in Reed Magazine, The Naugatuck River Review, Crack the Spine, Rust + Moth, BARNHOUSE, Pidgeonholes, and others. She was also nominated for a 2017 Pushcart Prize and was a finalist in the 2017 James Wright Poetry Competition. alyssa is an aquarium technician in Westchester and lives with her fish and special needs lizards.
PC: Lexi Jude
when I visited my mother I was haunted by new life
bred in the skull covered in red eyed rats left out
since last last Halloween, these little eyed lifelings
peering through plastic ocular sockets, or the jumper
hovering on the walkway, cannot find its nest, please
do not touch me. The next next day a bird flew inside
could not perch on the bleached walls, made a plunge
for the fan, wanting to become busted feathers too
got trapped in a dark bathroom for hours, waiting
to breathe, clung to frame, cornered until body
smothered with towel, two living hands making
a pouch to carry you out of rat house, where they
chew under doors to taste your sweets, their gnaw
marks the same manner of nails to the insides of
escape that is my own mode of living hell, making
wings out of stolen newspapers and barbed wire
and heading for the window
Super Blue Blood Moon
At the trifecta luna I was in a
depressive awakeness, inside the
house and not realizing a once in a
lifetime or so cosmic event was transpiring,
missing it no less, and sleeping my afternoons away.
My bed is both prison and solace,
both stranger and intimate other.
I touch my computer more than I touch other people.
It should be left off that way, but it never bends to me,
just slowly deteriorates and makes it harder to delete what
I don’t want to be seen, buttons stuck or just forgetting their
purpose along the way.
New tidings but the same old habits and
habitat dissipating soon, appearing more
monstrous than it really is, and still the eclipse
asks me to shed part of sustaining wine waves,
these veined rivers making the moon the color of
a mad planet, and a few more centuries will have to pass
before you ever forget being here too.
About the Author - Nikkin Rader
Nikkin Rader writes and breathes and tries to find a reason to keep going. She is in between states and jobs and continues to wander. Her works can be found in Pussy Magic, Occulum, the Cauldron Anthology, Anti-Heroin Chic, the Mojave Heart Review, and other notable places.