Kat Meads

Something Coming, Something Not

          Mina slept four days and four nights and woke up unrecognizable to herself. She could no longer curl her stuck-out tongue; she could no longer rapidly and with rhythmic charm recite the alphabet in reverse, another of her self-entertaining standards. Her head felt as stale as a cracker left overnight on the counter. Nevertheless she sat up and tried to get on with the business of being whatever she had become.
          At the bedroom door her long-departed mother stood waiting for her. “Well,” her mother said, not entirely a question, not entirely a declaration. Her mother had been an elliptical conversationalist at best, so Mina wasn’t surprised by the scarcity of tonal clues. Unsurprised but, as usual regarding her mother’s utterances, puzzled. Was her mother inquiring after the state of Mina’s health after the long lie-in or was her mother (more likely) insisting Mina declare what next she intended?
          Since there existed (still) a threshold between them, Mina opted not to cross it, instead shutting the door, returning to bed and resuming the dream she’d temporarily exited, two scenes playing on a continuous loop. In the first she packed and repacked a suitcase. In the second she cleaned and reorganized the disordered contents of a mini-fridge, knocking her head frequently on the highest mini-shelf. Tedious, repetitive tasks and, in dream, never ending. Three days and three nights later she woke feeling even more exhausted than she’d felt at the end of her first sleep marathon. Deep cavities of blue hung below her eyes. Higher, her eyelids looked puffy and stung when she blinked. She seemed to have raked her left cheek with a fingernail while dreaming of scraping clean the mini-fridge.
          Her mother sat in an uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room, paging through a magazine that contained only Roman numerals.
          “Well,” she said again.
          Mina shut her eyes—but only temporarily. When next she opened them, her mother lay beside her in bed. For a while they both stared at the ceiling that seemed (to her) full of jumps and starts and flickery shadow but possibly to her mother seemed as blank and bald and empty as the moon.
          Before her mother could speak again, Mina herself did the honors, using her flat voice. “You were always in such a rush,” she said.
          Her mother grunted. Mina took this for basic agreement with the evaluation, but sensed her mother was constrained from further elaboration. Mina’s ankles were swollen as if she’d walked many miles, though in her dreams she’d packed and cleaned from a central command post, her movements confined to leaning down or leaning in. Any hour now, she supposed she’d be compelled to get on with whatever awaited her, events that had her name on them, feelings that erupted from verifiable interactions. She supposed such was the case. Yet not even her dead mother had categorically nixed another sleep-in, if Mina needed another, to prepare.

Kat Meads, the author of more than 20 books and chapbooks of prose and poetry, lives in California. (katmeads.com)

Kate LaDew

a statue of the virgin mary was accused of being a witch

and, giving no reply either way, 
the men in charge sentenced her to trial by water 
throwing the statue into the nearest river
it floated, as wooden things do, 
and, after being declared guilty, was retrieved, 
surrounded by the chanting men and swiftly burned 
minutes or hours or days later, 
a little girl crept towards the ashes of the virgin mary statue 
that was now, officially, just the remnants of a dead witch 
when the little girl dug her fingers into the dirt, she stifled a cry 
pulling back hands red like fire with either the devil’s magic or god’s grace
giving in to the sudden urge to press her burning palms to her heart
the little girl felt herself light up as a thousand sparks of electricity 
shot out of her fingers, her eyes, her toes, the edges of her hair
rooted between the dark of the earth and the blue of the sky she stood
fiery hands outstretched, heart ablaze, eyes reaching up up up—
when the men in charge found her, 
not one could touch the air without being burned

Kate LaDew is a graduate from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro with a BA in Studio Art.  She resides in Graham, NC with her cats, Charlie Chaplin and Janis Joplin.

Tony Iantosca

Metrics

Are we special,
kids? Waking up
without crying, a coffee
and drill sounds
the continuous
shut up. Have we
opened the door
to our own faces?
Are the measurements
precise or imprecise?
I ask because when
even the old men
hate the police
something has
happened. Something
has happened.

Dirt Trajectory

The poem reaches
its high point
but the author doesn’t
like it. This is why
at the end, we begin
to discuss traffic laws
and the food transmuted
into sleep on the
rattling airplane
stuttering without proof
of insurance. If we lack
charisma, it’s because
the author is always
behind or in front
but never himself
being written
or moved. It is impossible
to move the author.
Otherwise, the correct
reading of the text
would be severely
undermined and we could
only give up and let other
people tell us what’s
really going on. Luckily
the way things have been
planned, with the police
in every finger used
to trace the dirt trajectory
of every nice sentence,
that will never happen.

My settings

Once I failed
at worrying,
my settings
rearranged some
explosions close
to the measured
accent placed
on what I believe
is my zone. But under
this location
is the location—
get it right
or give up thinking
the mutilated
ground or the old
skull’s sands become
wires. They will figure
out how it’s related
to being afraid
as opposed
to experiencing
explosions themselves
without mediating
their supposedly
requisite anxiety
in anything like
a poem.

Tony Iantosca is a poet and educator living in Brooklyn. He has published two books of poems–To the Attic (Spuyten-Duyvil, 2020) and Shut up, Leaves (United Artists Books, 2015). Recent poems can be found in the online journal a Glimpse of, Second Factory, Poems by Sunday, a Perimeter and Periodicities. Recent reviews, essays, and other nonfiction writing can be found in Im@go: a Journal of the Social Imaginary, Radical Philosophy Review and Tripwire Journal. He is a lecturer in the English department at Kingsborough Community College (CUNY).

Σοφία Μπέμπεζα

Αποχωρισμός

Ηommage στη θεία Τασία

Ακόμη μια
οικιακή θεία
με τη ραπτομηχανή της
στην κουζίνα

το θειάφι ως λίπασμα θείου
μέσο εδαφοβελτίωσης
με μέτρια ακαρεοκτόνο δράση
στον κήπο της ζωής

θεία χρυσάφι
με φυλλικής επιφάνειας
χέρια
στα τόπια των υφασμάτων

η επιστροφή
στο έδαφος
προκαλεί ερεθισμό στο δέρμα και στα μάτια
δημιουργώντας μία φυσική ασπίδα

μοδίστρα με φιγουρίνια
σε ιλουστρασιόν έκδοση
στο λεωφορείο των κραδασμών
για το Φάληρο

αυτοβρασθέν θειασβέστιο
1907
προς καταπολέμηση της φαιής σήψεως
της ροδακινιάς και της δαμασκηνιάς

πατρόν και καρφίτσες που τσιμπάνε
στον ώμο
ώστε να παραχθεί το ένδυμα της
παραγγελίας

Για να επενεργήσει
το θειάφι ως αυτούσιο ή οξειδωμένο
και να εξαερωθεί
χρειάζεται κατάλληλη θερμοκρασία

του φθινοπώρου.

27.10.2021

H Σοφία Μπέμπεζα είναι θεωρητικός της τέχνης, εικαστικός και διδάσκουσα σε γερμανόφωνα Πανεπιστήμια και Σχολές Καλών Τεχνών (Leuphana University, Zurich University of the Arts, F+F Zurich). H μονογραφία της Geschichte(n) des Kunststreiks ::Ιστορία/ες της καλλιτεχνικής απεργίας:: κυκλοφόρησε το 2019 από τις εκδόσεις Τransversal στη Βιέννη. https://sofiabempeza.org/

Louise Akers, Jeff Voss

TOWARD AN ETHIC/S OF MYCELIAL AWARENESS

Louise Akers is a poet living in Queens, NY. They earned their MFA from Brown University in May of 2018, and received the Keith and Rosmarie Waldrop Prize for Innovative Writing and the Confrontation Poetry Prize. Their chapbook, Alien year, was selected by Brandon Shimoda for the 2020 Oversound Chapbook Prize. Akers’s work can be found in the Berkeley Poetry Review, MIDTERM, Bat City Review, Fugue Journal, Confrontation Magazine, bæst journal, and elsewhere.

Jeff Voss is a poet and ultimate frisbee player based in Brooklyn, NY. He is currently a PhD candidate in English at the CUNY Graduate Center.

Edward Lee

Across All We Do Not Understand (‘Ephemeral’)

A Meeting Of Possible Moments (‘Ephemeral’)

In between Days

Ever You And I (‘Between Sleep And Dreams’)

Lost Together (‘Our Fragile Glimpse’)

Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: ‘Lying Down With The Dead’ and ‘There Is A Beauty In Broken Things’. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

Flo Ray

from Fury of the Female Yellowjackets

Fury of the Female Yellowjackets is a project in two parts: one is a long poem written in three acts; the other is a sculptural installation. Inspired in part by the female yellowjacket (wasp), whose venomous stinger is also her sex organ, and in part by the role incongruity plays within collective organising principles — such as those witnessed in the various configurations of the Gilets Jaunes (who, at the start of writing, were entering their 14th Act across France). Both iterations of the project reflect on the body as a site of collision, exploring what it means to hold multiple, often conflicting, possibilities simultaneously.

Flo Ray lives in London, UK, and works across text, film, performance, sound, drawing, sculpture and installation. Recent work includes her audio play, Motherlugger, which was broadcast in April ’21 at echoes.earth for CORRECT ME IF I’M WRONG; and AR TICULATIONS — an excerpt of which was published in Prototype’s recent anthology, Intertitles.

Florence Uniacke

from Vocable

Florence Uniacke is a poet based in London. Their chapbook Suiving is currently out with Ma Bibliotheque and their next book, Vocable, is forthcoming with Crater press.

Jed Munson

From “Silts”

The poems are selected from a series of poems called “Silts” that examine surface and sequence as textual senses and architectures. While the titling of the series as “silts” may frame the text as sediment or material, really silt as material is definitionally galvanized by moving water. In this way, the silts are only possible by material and force external to them and in that way negatively refer to that externality. In other words, silts, like these poems, exist necessarily in cooperation with other, less graspable elements of their environment.

Jed Munson is a Korean American poet and critic. His chapbook, Newsflash Under Fire, Over the Shoulder, is forthcoming with Ugly Duckling Presse.

DANIEL OWEN

from Right on Time

Daniel Owen‘s recent publications are Celingak-Celinguk (Tan Kinira, 2021), Up in the Empty Ferries (Third Floor Apartment Press, 2021), and Points of Amperture (dos-à-dos chapbook with Jennifer Soong’s When I Ask My Friend, DoubleCross Press, 2021). His translations from Indonesian include Afrizal Malna’s Document Shredding Museum (Reading Sideways Press, 2019) and poems by Malna and Farhanah published in various journals and magazines. Recent writing and translations have appeared in Circumference, Asphalte, Columbia Journal, and The Poetry Project Newsletter. He edits and designs books and participates in many processes of the Ugly Duckling Presse editorial collective.

Dayna A. Gross

Quickly!

I was born a sensitive and calm child. No one taught me babies cry when they awaken, so I remained silent. My parents were delighted every time they peaked into my bedroom to find me awake, “This one never cries when she awakens,” they would say w/ pride.

I was not taught their language yet. They sounded as foreign to me as moo’ing cattle.

I was born a sensitive and calm child, but my mother was selfish and I absorbed her nature because she was ma-ma and I was girl while the rest of the world were dangerous uncaged zoo animals.

I was born a sensitive and calm child soothed by a selfish nurture and now love with a selfish nature.

I was born a sensitive and calm child, when people try to speak to me all I hear is: Baaaaaah.

NEVER CHANGE

NEVER CHANGE
NEVER CHANGE NEVER CHANGE
NEVER CHANGE
NEVER CHANGE. NEVER CHANGE
NEVER CHANGE

NEVER CHANGE never change never change
Never change
Never cha-nge never change ne-ver change never-change never change.

Never change, neverchange nivir chanj
Never chainj
Never chains
Never change-, never chang.e
NEVER CHANGENEVER CHANGE
NEVER.CHANGE
NEVER CHANG:
NEVER; CHANGE
NEVER CHANG
CHANGE NEVER CHANGE NEVER
CHANGE
NEVR CHANGE
NEVER CH-NGE. N-V-R CHANGE. NVR CHNAGE. EVER CHANGE.

Future. Womb. Country side. Horse. Mental. Cheater. Eyes. Laughter. Contact. Attention. Soft. Return. Humor. Broken. Mundane. Eyes. Ease. Flight. Hotel. Beer. Hike. Summer. Argentina. Chile. Berlin. Writing. Breakfast. Fruit. Peanuts. Commitment. Loyalty. Honesty. Repetition. Love. Heart organ. Heart signals. Imagination. Unforgiving. Maté. Water temperature. Market. Stride. Side by side. Hitch hiking. Alone. Asleep. Left. Distance. Imagination. Wondering. Unknown. Unforgivable. Blasphemy. Friendship. Music. Timing. Outright. Unspeakable. Inaudible. Possibilities. Future. Locked. Loyalty. Promises. Return. Summer. Spring. Flat. Men. Ignored. Heard. Focused. Lightness. Mountain. Rock. Earth. Lake. Dry. Wet. View. Shelter. Bar. Timing. Country. Air. Romance. Unexplored. Again. Again. Possibilities.

Today the objects are frozen

t white tea kettle w t blue and orange-red flowers,
t glass jar, t papers, t books, t plants
Stand unbearably still
If I would slide them off t table one by one, they would descend slowly
Shatter to pieces w a jingle
Like t last guttural sound a lamb releases when more than half its thick red blood has squirted from t slit in its throat and t body jerks automatically but t lamb is lifeless between t eyes, these objects
Shattered to pieces, would too, stare
Back lifelessly w out t prospect of returning

Maybe not t plant
No, most certainly not t plant.

Dayna A. Gross has been published and shortlisted in the Büro BDP Writing Prize 2020 (November 2020), Angel City Review (July 2020), Another Chicago Magazine (June 2020), RHNK (2017), JFKI (2018), Seeing Her Ghost (2017) among other small press publications. She lives in Berlin, Germany where she hosts an experimental poetry radio show called CRYPTOMNESIA, which streams FM in Berlin and Brandenburg.

Maria Damon, Alan Sondheim

Braid

A Fumble of Blimp Sums

Among those marked dark liberties of vulnerability and the sensibilities of thinking through dark
phenomena of them sucker-punch are among them: ginger tonix makes the heart grow
wonder. One wonders for Ross Howard and Bob Dole, were skated holes would be around a
few items when the cataclysm and its non-apostrophe’d accumulations would finally cricket
ricochet depravity one fortunes surgeons sturgeon purges Sears four and blues smoke and
almost as much from surgical symptoms and eggs. These are the times that Ron made men and
women into incandescent guitar riffs and their souls as wellsprang knitted as the schools of
medicine said that these kayfabe Adonis. Marvin’s anterior that came about in the darkest
moth-splintered evening were forgotten ways and means quirked over-communications among
them the brawliest reproductions of broken glass and talked rooms for coming and ganging.
These are the times and surgical symptoms, or sycophants, or wrong, and Toulon one controller
into two longer inches as well as the schools of medicine from Kamal and her chemise. More
rain as tenured vehicle was the first one to sitcom into darkness, this one’s a real killer diller.
Ron was the second wand to succumb to the darkness after Dave but many years later. All
reproductions or brawls put a symbiosis of synods. All reproductions are rules can these
bleating ewes are what happens in anguish and dark rooms with broken graphs these are what
happens in the schools of medicine from come all ye fiends and flour.

The user vessels molds that rodman showrooms on or off in another way for roger Mushroom
Mcintosh once the time to go rears its hydra-headed sum of its hole. Once the time has gone to
seed tools and return the charities you can freshen the charlatan time, the time, the clownish
time tripping over its stupid shoes. And reproduction isn’t production of worry but rather a
cryptic social work. Rain is a reproduction of worry. Isn’t that true? The rain stops here.

A Bundle of Symptoms

If this symptomatic gathering is going to work from: it seems to me that this divine object of perseverance and perplexity would have to have some weren’t too transfer this darling nosegay of symptoms over to the text here and to three was going on right now into a bliss state of bluest bluets and what are we talking object Arnold S sensibilities for awesome this tiny sumptuosity is the homeless and assumes that this is capital and bob Dole of symptoms and salvations. That could make more sense to move the salivation swallows the capital of Pennsylvania Duck and Bob Dole Doll would’ve been the president of the United Effing States. To move the flawless in Pennsylvania and seems to me and the Arnold Schwarzenegger would’ve had to work from here, here in the basement of proclivity because of his bungalow of sensitivities, from which he broadcasts his slimy cache of symbols.

Only two chapter one the Bongo of sensitivities and also congas we were out of earth and a clever cleaver they’re looking for slime molds also, smoked sausage andouille bundle of syllables and use and were found something beatifically quaverly underneath the train that seemed extraordinarily sensitive and a bulbous a word also have two B-sides transferred or Bob Dole Or Us. Beloved question whether Bob Dole was overall good rule were all the jewel and then leaping sprinting longdistance calling in the old mode. He was certainly are something you can get my understanding here is not of perspicacious but no one can only try to grow and thrive on the depth of what is subject to an NT relatives, relative to a bonfire of syllabuses. A sensitivity might have some relationship to two Broadway diners in the typical old style between water witches whirlpool for a popular vortex in Japan intends to work extraordinarily well with the splenetic growth of formal.

A Smorgasbord of Rabid Thumbs

having forgotten what the rain was capable of doing what’s in in without the precipice of prepuce coming through what could only be considered the magisterial in relationship to thinking this through and why dear God and why and why this is acting and behaving correctly for the first time so that’s what I’m saying here is exactly what I mean? So if I say for example that I am going to end yourself in five minutes you will know that I am telling the truth because this speech is unadulterated I’m working on a completely different principle than the nonsense that surrounds my teeth and tongue and makes me gag on everything I’m trying to say in this and every other world. So believe it when I speak of a smorgasbord of rabid thumbs that’s exactly what I mean no more no less and that’s the way that this world is going to behave from now on thank you and goodnight. Paragraph paragraph ha ha ha forever!

Alan Sondheim is a new media artist, musician, writer, and performer
concerned with issues of virtuality, and the stake that the real world has
in the virtual. His writing is known for its “somatic grit” and skeletal
codes that partially appear within and determine the surface; the textual
body and body of text are deeply entangled. He has been producing his
“Internet Text,” a daily meditation on virtuality, for twenty-seven years.
His work can be found at http://www.alansondheim.org/ and YouTube at
https://www.youtube.com/user/asondheim/videos .

Maria Damon has published widely on modern U.S. poetry and poetics. She is the author of two books of poetry scholarship; two chapbooks (meshwards and XXX) of cross-stitch visual poems; co-author (with mIEKAL aND, Adeena Karasick, Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, and Alan Sondheim) of several books of poetry; and co-editor (with Ira Livingston) of an anthology of readings on poetry and cultural studies. With mIEKAL aND, she published the first book-length poem on the internet, Literature Nation (http://joglars.org/literature_nation/litnat/index.html).

CAConrad

from The Jasmine Ascension

CAConrad has been working with the ancient technologies of poetry and ritual since 1975. They are the author of AMANDA PARADISE: Resurrect Extinct Vibration (Wave Books, 2021). Other titles include While Standing in Line for Death and Ecodeviance. The Book of Frank is now available in 9 different languages. They received a Creative Capital grant, a Pew Fellowship, a Lambda Literary Award, and a Believer Magazine Book Award. They teach at Columbia University in New York City and Sandberg Art Institute in Amsterdam. Please visit their website https://linktr.ee/CAConrad88

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa

from The End Zone

enmeshed and ruthlessly entangled
reduced to a thought inside a thought
the mind in its own place
from the middlings and meddlings
the era of explaining gets you what you want
if words don’t line up properly
you are you just the same as yesterday
flowers bloom next to the cabin where I’m not
but you are still there

miserly thicket
out of which you came
a stupid bouquet
for disintegrating ash
a soggy lifestyle produces a silvery sonnet
a gust of graphs and grabs
easy to be heavy when stuck in the city
network other
the last remaining decision is doldrum

continuous sunshine in memories
obscured by contamination in need of intervention
joining the era of broken sound and lost remedies
that grace the statues
the remorse and regret
my long ears don’t hear a word
nomadic words by you heave heavy
diagnosed as terror and conflict

just a game
to write furiously till your wrist breaks
uninterrupted text
a pin in its bed
slow ornament, decentered, detached,
defaulted
psychological money
conversing by accident
gums up our existence
between the next thought and
the planned ones
asymmetry of accidents
observed niches
cling to maps of lost continents

the punitive idea of Eden
a vain lack anticipated
before meaning arrives
thoughts fade, try again
the arrival of more sound and indifferent luck

my heart would pack a wallop
if the myth of denial was less real
one delicate moment
dies on the vine
a reinterpretation of repeating phrases
to speak the imposed infancy
in the dark soup of society

*

Born in the USA Jane Joritz-Nakagawa has lived inJapan since 1989. Her tenth poetry book, Plan B Audio (Isobar Press)was published in 2020.  She is the editor of an anthology of poetry by women living outside their birth countries and the author of numerous essays and works of fiction.  Email is welcome at janejoritznakagawa(at)gmail(dot)com.