The Uncontrollable Issue


Uncontrollable apparitions, texts, talks, feelings, incidents. Confront or embrace the uncontrollable, make uncontrollable detours, start addressing all (un)controllable things with wit.

See how the uncontrollable operates in the fascinating works of Emanuela Bianchi, Maria Damon, Alan Sondheim, Mez Breeze, Clive Gresswell, Jane Joritz-Nakagawa, Aadityakrishna Sathish, Olivia Cronk & Philip Sorenson, Matt Schumacher, Christine Stoddard, and Florence Sunnen.

Nemesis is a collaborative work by Emanuela Bianchi, Maria Damon, and Alan Sondheim: “Alan (whom I’ve known since about 1996 when I first encountered his writing online) and I have written several other collaborations. He had been reading about Nemesis’s origins as the goddess of retribution, and proposed that for our next project we write about her. I was all for it. Alan started us off by quoting sections of source material. I responded by elaborating in a more fanciful, lyrical way, and then Alan chopped up the writing by various means: deleting a vowel, subjecting the text to various computer commands, etc. We go back and forth. I mentioned the collaboration to Emanuela Bianchi, who sent me a paragraph she had recently written on the genesis of Nemesis, and Alan and I were so taken with it that we included it as our epigraph. Alan and I share a taste for texts that careen out of control and he has many excellent techniques for making that happen.”

A very bizarre 1987 pirating incident inspired Olivia Cronk & Philip Sorenson to write a “critical/lyric essay” about “faces, transmission, infection, interruption, abrasion, intrusion, translation, similes, meaning, television, inscription, mirrors as anti-allegory, time travel.”

Matt Schumacher’s prose poems/dreams of Thomas De Quincey “contain kennings, drug-world slang, archaic language from the 1800s, and neologisms.”

Furthermore this hybrid uncontrollable narrative includes (visual) poems, photos, digital fiction, things to cherish, and share. Many thanks to all contributors for their bold, unconventional works. Now enjoy.


Emanuela Bianchi, Maria Damon, Alan Sondheim


In the mythical genealogy of Hesiod’s Theogony maternal fecundity is primordial, and yet always remains marked by a certain obscurity. As Nicole Loraux observes, two mothers, Gaia and Night, are daughters of Chaos, the primordial cleft or gap. Night, “aware of nothing but division gave birth – without love – by fission only – to progeny encompassing everything negative in the Greek imagination.” The offspring of Gaia are all the gods, mostly born from a male and female parent, with their active, masculine rivalries, hatreds, and violences, exemplified by the castration of Ouranos by Kronos, and the eventual victory of Zeus over all. Night, on the other hand, will give birth to plural groups of feminine goddess (Hesperides, Fates, Keres, Nereides, Oceanides, Horae, Charites) as well as the well-known abstractions, such as Doom, Death, Age, Nemesis, and Strife. Further, “Strife bore painful Toil and Forgetfulness and Famine and tearful Sorrows, Fightings also, Battles, Murders, Manslaughters, Quarrels, Lying Words, Disputes, Lawlessness and Ruin, all of one nature, and Oath who most troubles men upon earth when anyone willfully swears a false oath.” This propensity for self-splitting is thus rendered an obscure and relentless rumble, an evil and awesomely powerful function, characteristic of a particularly feminine side of genos which masculine, paternal genos must take as its singular duty to subjugate.
Emanuela Bianchi, “Genos Between Nature and Power.”

less _a_.

and less an
incident, becuse of her feelings nemesis (o my private goddess of private emptiness), righteous hincident, bec use hve been h ve inst enemies –my enemies with their breath sweetened with the cloying toxicity of imagined sincerity) pst ted by, the resurgence Atheni st nd n g t outset Peloponnesin Wn W Wr. By brokenness fore and aft, left and right, high and low, by emptiness and brokenness in the starry night 
fifth century r. present, by cant of darkness, depth of kettlehole murk. We all imagine truth; none imagine truth looms.Femina factora, Nemesis weaves truth on her four swords. She constructs a loom of them, warps it and weaves from the lies told by the male gods; she turns their breath-lines into the thinnest thread and makes a gauze of truth. This gauze, when held against the sun, shows a rainbow.

less an incident, than the failure of truth.

The eyes of e, the I of is. The meting of what is owed. Pleased to mete you your measure of metre, of verse, of tears, to turn you into a vessel of wet salt grief. somewhere down there, CHITON is thinking, i’m glad i’m here, i’m glad i’m in the salt walk of the deep byte, maybe i’ll survive, i’ve done it for 10s of 1,000,000s of years, maybe 100s, i don’t want you anywhere near me, nemesis is your business, your impropriety, not mine. go away, i’m grazing rock.

N of negation, M of ocean, S of the deep bite. Corrosion of karmic tumble, over and over, in the salt waves, dashed against the wet sand with repeated vigor. Hurl, and hurl, splattered again. (here the chiton emerges, Cryptochitonstelleri,the giant western and fiery chiton, the platelets, almost trilobitic, monolobotic, holdfast against the splattering, against Nemesis Aura Auracular, Dear Maria, I will not close these parentheses!

Aura Auracular, the breath of speech, the gold of guile. She comes for you, blasting your face with the heat of her gaze.

Around her supple ample dimple body she wears a chiton woven of spun gold, which she bartered from the Fates in exchange for the souls of a few dozen lying men. Aura Auracular, Azure Abomination Nemesis stands upon two giant western fiery chitons, Gumboot and Meatloaf, as they graze the rocks for food. She is half submerged, half hovering above the sea in her motherly wrath. You can see her from a great distance in her billowing shimmering dimpling gold robe.

Nemesis, supreme in her negation of all supremacy, s deserved.[cittion needed] Ld come to me tion Lter, wh ter, w her laughter of whipped fawns and her smile of avenging radiance,
“to give wht is due”,[2] from Proto-Indo-Europet
Proto-Indo-Europe Proto-Indo-Europen nem- c rnessed rcing Grypes
obstinte enemy Aur cing . She, oh flowing liquid honey of melody, te d hd hrnessed r (Griffins)
newly spun robe, gold spun of molten honey, of melody, of stinging nettles, of thistle-down, ge;

to live under a shadow of pleasure. the avenging gun-toter. the slung noose of inevitability.slung lungs, where Chiton lives, now a name for this particular chiton, of which one forms all proper names:

the proper name of the is The.
The proper name of proper is Proper.
The proper name of nemesis is Nemesis.
The proper name of alan is Alan.
The proper name of of is Of.
for which we have Chiton to thank:
The proper name of chiton is Chiton.

She Who breaks the Aura, She Who divides; / ;

She who she who she who breathes at your neckhairs.
she who she who she who reaches for your belt,
she who she who she who undoes your sandal-laces,
she who she who she who trips you in the sand
she who she who she who carves her fate into your skin

then you lso hthe cestus, the following Colossus on his knees hustling clumsily after her, flogged m rri no
then you isolate the censorious overlords, pin them to their sharp words with their sharp tongues and your own sharp swords, all four of them, right through their heartless hearts
fer, for Aurto bl r, your deceitful sleep woods; your heart of Chiton;

Aura Auratic who breaks the digital bonds, creates Shadow,
She Who obscures;

deceitful in your abjection, but not so our divine Nemesis, she who walks on skulls to get to heaven, she who lifts up the abjected maids violated over and over by Zeus, Apollo, Ares.

Apollopes, Sears Ares; Aura Oracular’s Memesis, swollen and dim minds.
So he says, you’re saying that she’s saying that no one remembers their mind? No one, she replied through you. Mary and Todd said that’s where imagination comes from, from Lincoln’s logs and files, already hacked:

res Nemesis below blows your mind when you’re looking away from the horror: mend mesurement – constitution surement more than you can handle, and certainly more than you can imagine. 
H shdowy ttributes dowy digit l, this or with word, pregnant with word, but word and with shadow, pregnant with word and with shadow, casting her long lines across the city, the long lines raying out from her navel, where she stands at the center of the city, in the shadows of the word, her belly bulging, gives birth to Legion.

The Gatha of Legion:
The Improper Name of The is the.
the Improper Name of Gatha is gatha.
the Improper Name of of is of.
the Improper Name of Legion is legion.

Too hot, too hot, too hot panting in pluribus Onan, Nemesis sees your every doubled move in her many eyes, reflected in her poly-prismatic swords, so many of you, miniaturized, doing that shame thing, many times multiplied, doing that thing, she will give you your justice

will give you your Justice, just as Justice is legion, con-fined, among the nemeses of Nemesis, con-founded:

My name is Legion. I shall conquer Nemesis. I shall release Aura Auratic. No one can help being really terrific, AA comes with so many depth! To see her is to love her fantastic fast! She is so much good goodess!

good goddess tht Nemesis, vert whom,Nemesis? Wh ding wrns us by 
cubit-rule rns bridle neither do dre known (Retribution)
tribulations and tintinnabulations, raining on the city in the sight of Nemesis, trials for the worthy, the hypocrites and the major dons of the republic, their days are numbered and not so plentiful.
Discussion: ped fther Zeus, gseventh century: ther gve fter she
chnging, which only mentioned in Kyprich nging, Kypri, Kypri,
worshipped personified, seemingly different Personified rt
literture building does not ture temple ppe Attic
Why would a father rape his own daughter? why would he try to prevent her changing into a goddess, who brings retribution to all those wronged by harsh lust? Why would anyone do anything in these harsh times? Why, Improper chiton, is anyone capable, cap-able, in these yet harsher times?

Rhmnous 470s, chronology cult stmnous mnous sttue tue Pheidis
mni mde s, who expl de ins th plusibly usibly ttributed out The
rtilly role lly re identified p Helens mother ws entirely
forgotten over PersiHelens Persins, Persi ns, bse se context
story Helen [2], hs now politics politic politicl identity into
l Rh Rhmnous. bringing either mrricult ge mnous. Menelos [3].
Here joined severto Menel os severl other opposite side sever
se. here most implcc cble ble v
when is new politics of retribution going to rise in the east like our radiant Nemesis, our Name is Us, our Is Is Is of half-spoken aspiration?

Aswirl in a soup of incantatory words, we reach for a non-ground of non-being, hoping in non-hope for a survival of some small grain of embodiment. We fear we are drowning in crazed floods of language.
We say, precisely as follows, We See No Sign Of god, No Sign Of nemesis, all sign of Chiton, of which We Say:

chiton is the proper name of Chiton.
Chiton is the improper name of chiton.

NM, Nemesis-Memesis another meme. Memes are half-spoken, abject when they’re dressed. NM and AA love each other; AA says, “That’s sure more than a meme!” Right now it’s dark outside, furious storm, thunder coming. The gods are saying I’m right as rain! Men think they’re deities, AA, Abigail Aubergine knows otherwise, says deity men violence, the It/d. deity men violence. It/d [1.33.3] Of rble Peidi Nemesis. [1.33.7]
Neither nor ny ncient wings they Love. I ce ske cleke cle ke
clerness. Your protective wings of shadow and silk.
Greeks rness. will go onto describe pref he hy
represented being led Led originlly meNemesis origin ment
distributor fortune, resentment”
alchemized into clean steel-gold action.
From nt rd, In Greek trs tr
trgedies gedies fourth onw ppevenger some met ppers chiefly
physic venger metphysicppe physicl mythology, rs ys egg
discovered void bird form respected goddess, brought much sorrow
Boeotid BoeotiBoeoti BoudicaBoudiccaBoadicea furybody of
transcontinental colonization, subaltern rising to the elliptical top,
She of thegold lace and steel glides forward into the center of the fire, She calls on the dead to avenge the living. (The Greeks say, they’re in the EU, they’re tired of nasty family dramas chewing up everyone, women brutalized, there’s no excuse for that. The Greeks say, they know better, the drachma dolmas, doldrums dolorosa. The Greeks drag us into the 21st century. They say look at your usa, we have usG for many times now. Your usa has nasty family dramas.
No muses for you, usa! all art will ebb, all evil flood. Our Nemesis is beauty inverted. She’ll take your gold and good riddance!

AA, Azure Antigone, agrees. Devoid of scalars, improper Fractions, names. myths and ruptures repeat repulsive relatives’ recallings, rehearsed, reversed – reverance required, reality relinquished… immeasurable, infinite, incomparable, incommensurable, immoderate, immodest, immolating, impish…

Although too bore ffliction believed one should ever th”
(Theogony, 223, though perhps ps mort ls subject line). As
“Goddess Rhmnous”, wmnous”, mnous”, poet Mesomedes wrote hymn
honored pl rk-fced e”Nemesis, winged b ced erly times rly ncer
life, representtions resembled Aphrodite, sometimes berepresent
tions bers be epithet nme relepithet relted nmein, rel rticulrly
concerned mme mtters love. ning. myth tters sprung up ground? Myth mother on sprung ground, epithets hanging from her shoulders, mossy with froth, swaying as she trudges

All the numbers spell out a future that falls through a space in the cosmos.
All the letters gather together and ask please do not make such a mess.
chiton Calls Them Out, The Recounting Of Nemesis:

[Nemesis recounts rncient rce Typhoeus dTit ughter Phrygi. With
equns) [i.e. equl speed (the Unvoidsteivoidble) [Nemesis]
pursued Argive
venomous hymns to no avail. a tiny reticule opens to reveal a blinding light that devours all guilt. Aura Argive Absolved Absolutely Astonishing, All Animals And Androids Amazingly Absconding, Astounded! Adrble) stei let whip l[Nemesis] lter seduced Zeus], ter ck
snowbeten Tprep ten Turos red uros nother love flew nd] sid sves
id until ves ched [ Tit nes (T (Turus) urus) snowbe
an ice palace where evil is allowed to pretend it’s in ascendancy… snowbeaten paths attract all malfeasers… and Nemesis seals the door on them.

AA says Hello. And ZZZZ of the Four-Sworded Loom says Goodbye!! Goodbye!! Goodbye!! Goodbye!!


slung lungs.


Emanuela Bianchi is a philosopher and assistant professor of comparative literature at New York University, who works at the intersection of Ancient Greek philosophy and literature, feminist/queer theory, and contemporary continental philosophy. She is the author of The Feminine Symptom: Aleatory Matter in the Aristotelian Cosmos (Fordham, 2014), co-editor (with Sara Brill and Brooke Holmes) of Antiquities Beyond Humanism (Oxford, forthcoming 2018), and has written numerous articles in journals including Hypatia, The Yearbook of Comparative Literature, Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal, Philosophy Today, Epochê, and Angelaki. She is currently at work on a manuscript provisionally entitled “Emergence and Concealment: Nature, Hegemony, Kinship.”

Maria Damon teaches poetry and poetics at the Pratt Institute of Art. She is the author of two books of poetry scholarship; co-author (with mIEKAL aND, Alan Sondheim, Adeena Karasick, and Jukka-Pekka Kervinen) of several books of poetry; co-editor (with Ira Livingston) of Poetry and Cultural Studies: A Reader; and author of two cross-stitch visual poetry chapbooks, Meshwards and XXX.

Alan Sondheim is a Providence-based new media artist, musician, writer, and performer concerned with issues of virtuality, and the stake that the real world has in the virtual. He’s busy writing codework and theory at the moment, along with some new cds, shows, and videos on the way. His work can be accessed here:

Mez Breeze

Our Cupidity Coda

Please click here to watch: Our Cupidity Coda

Description: The meat of the project is a set of poetic texts interspersed with 360 illustrative stills. The work is deliberately designed to partially echo the conventions from early film-making days (including no audio), making a viewer focus on text inserts, which are contrasted with having to move (turn in the 360 VR space) and view the 360 tableaus (a reflection of the theme underlying the work) to engage fully with the 360 illustration sections.

Our Cupidity Coda is designed for viewing on any mobile phone and is designed for (initial) quick sharp consumption, then repeat plays for those with which it resonates. It’s designed for viewing as a 360 video through a URL on most mobile devices and/or desktops/tablets VR headsets (recommended is viewing through a Vive setup via a 360 viewer such as Virtual Desktop or the latest version of the Mozilla Firefox browser). Our Cupidity Coda was built from a desire to encourage repeat viewing, to play through the experience several times in order to unstitch the poetic denseness of the minimal text, and to absorb and process the 360 visuals. It’s a slow-burn work for those that click with it.

Mez Breeze’s award-winning creations have helped shape digital fiction for over two decades. “#PRISOM”, her anti-surveillance game created with Andy Campbell and produced for The 2013 International Symposium on Mixed and Augmented Reality , is “…the digital equivalent of Orwell’s 1984” (according to James O’Sullivan). Mez is a Coproducer, Creative Director and Lead Interactive Writer of the “Inanimate Alice: Perpetual Nomads” Virtual Reality/Novel Series, co-creator of All the Delicate Duplicates, Advisor to The Mixed Augmented Reality Art Research Organisation, and is currently developing a comprehensive career archive with Duke University.

Clive Gresswell

Film by Greta Zabulyte

Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.


Jane Joritz-Nakagawa

plan b audio five

a portmanteau of crimes
committed on the bodies of
laborers.  too confused
to properly track their prey. my
face leaves.  because it’s high
and the sky is crowded. because
paulownia.  my arm is scarred
and sticks out against the
dark. because i am the
background.  because soon
animals will be eaten.  the
laborers did not revolt.  their
bodies were not revolting.   i
don’t like either side.  contradictory
fashion for laborers, for
animals. my face is willing.
a room filled yet empty.  the
background is financial.  a
broken sky is evidence. of winter,
of paulownia.  the identity of
nets catching invisible prey.  the
stupor of it, of revolts in broken
winter, where belabored bodies are the
background of solitude and
happenstance.  the illusion of
logic may heal the mind but
today the ramparts are possessed
by feeling and panoramic huts. each
breath savored for its effort.   every
awkward step.   for the sake of.
discussion.  dissolving into
beams of frenzied impossible
yearning.  through wickets
of doldrum and bureaucratic
spoils.   seaweed-like.
in small pieces.

plan b audio six

liquid determination
a disappearing door
the gardener enters
to tend to the fields of my crotch
decaying quivering
raking the leaves
creating odd potholes for driverless cars
in an era of exits

plan b audio seven

greying sky
what forces the mountains
to hide behind the clouds

above the planet
in the mind
a river of blue veins

a deep snow
falling elsewhere
how naked i’ve become

why does death
seep from my pores
cleaning the air of its stupor

near a pond
a body on a road
as if replaced

suffocated by sight
the “e” is silent
so must i be

my chewed vagina
a vanishing self
former namesake

fallen tree
looking diseased
pains me thoroughly

cutting through memory
broken water
sounding dead

long range missile
alternative truth
scrap metal

a gloomy oak tree
pinned to a wall
vast solitude

something like a person
a lucid cave
humble in its theater

free flowing doldrums
a drum of pink water
dull on my skin

a stationary wind
stepping beyond
a horizon of objects

bees atop flowers
perfumes in springtime
my greedy vulva

folded yukata
blue and white on tatami
large holes in the shoji

dead science of understanding
forming a sinkhole
sliver of grief

full of enemy corpses
on a street
aligned with nothing

another valley
without land
of the rocky spur

beyond the garden
row of visitors
smell of death

beard and tuxedo
on the television set
teeth like a dinosaur

entering the hospital
X-ray on a screen
shop of horrors

man with a hacking cough
it must be cancer
private thought

patient attached to a machine
her pallid face
thin and scared

rustling of uniforms
a beeper goes off
the sound of dying

heavy rain
plum blossoms on concrete
bar code on my wrist

too much whiskey
a face resembling
a crumpled sheet

lavender gloves on a table
pink curtain
embraces a dirty window

small intestine of trees
looks out over a great
expanse of burnt skin

each beginning an ending
marching orders
false embrace

ulnar nerve
knife through the heart
life of language

old fable
long gone
my empty uterus

in a world of mistranslation
reporting every blunder
the eldest maiko leaves home at sunset

to all appearances a human being
tossed aside
in eerie pennsylvania

plan b audio two

Impossible collapsing dialogues evict
My shadow, iconic falsity.  Optical
favors for driven
geese.  To shred
armor for fun,
reason the house
into cherubic slumber falling
over rotting apple trees.  Processes
in nature:  to dream
every disaster into sludge,
to translate movement into
taxes.  Vanishing
paragraphs traverse faster than
mire.  You’re a winner every
time.  Stopping to shatter
sleep into stuttering.  A breath
missed.  Next
door the moon melts
into ash splayed over oceans.  Backwash
implements mark the time when reaching
was my only failure.  I’d tolerate
other art forms if
they didn’t disable my back.  Future
hospital bills fit into two line
stanzas.  But the care
wasted on random smell won’t wash
in next year’s electoral
debate.  Murmuring my
favorite secret programs
are several special enemies
of state.  To recover one’s
proper place.  Substitute
influences vie for golden
landings.  My line
endings and spacings mash
potatoes.  Frivolous
collaborations resonate in
coincidental indiscretions and safety
determinations.  On fiery imaginary
planets.  Touching my hair
where it turns to mesh.  An
endless graphite spiral.  My
limbs against a widening
white tree.  A flag is stinky
proof of something.  Anxiety
is destiny on every
rooftop guarded by the
sickness police.  Surrounded
by a strange country.  Or found
in.  Pleats
of a bright room.


why not swoon if lavender mood         golf caddy ever-bending fellow acne daffodil riot mirrored casing subdural brake         linen moss untrimmed profile albino idea leaning of       strapped to depths of my nest                     mute soliloquy

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa‘s ninth book of poetry, <<terrain grammar>>, is forthcoming with theenk Books as is an anthology she edited titled women : poetry : migration [an anthology].

Aadityakrishna Sathish

Hong Kong is a city, like many others, where buildings reign over people. Life is predictable to the extent that some rich man is always going to have food on his plate (to be more precise, 8 small plates that would cost the same as what we pay for rent every month). You might get a promotion the year after—but hey—you might not. You might end up working the same job for 8 years without a raise.

Everyday life at the level of the economy is predictable. Like in many other places, the wolves of Wall Street (or we would say here, Central District) have swallowed the excitement whole. Then, what is left, is what some would call the “remainder life” or in other words, the weekend. Eating together as a family is a rare instance; it’s either too much of a bother to eat together as the table is too small to accommodate the four of us, or we are not present at the same time (my father proudly says he is on the clock 24/7). Then, the aspects of our lives that become unpredictable, uncontrollable, are precisely those moments that subtend work, office, paychecks, promotions: they are the building blocks of life as we know it.

Family time is radical.

There is no weekly Sunday dinner, and as such, every dinner together becomes relevant. A silence dwells here that allows for the unknown to erupt; we see a moment of familiar unfamiliarity; the teleology that work life promises becomes undone because of the danger of such moment—the danger of not-knowing, of being a family—of being together. What I have said so far illustrates the theme in the photos of my family members.

The photo that connects what I have said so far with the building material is titled “God.” The buildings that propel, consume and consume to propel the dreams of MNCs, the wolves of wall street, the CEOs, have their building blocks as well. There is “rubbish” and “waste” that is often forgotten about; these are often an “eyesore” for those that live in the neighborhood, but they are precisely where moments of the uncontrollable dwell. Here lies the question of life and death, as workers inhabit unsafe conditions to exponentially multiply the income of those that are to occupy the buildings after construction. I wanted to capture those moments of danger, excess, and suffocation.

These are pictures from a series that I call “Market Stories.” They offer a different version of Hong Kong, one that is located in the bustling, loud wet markets. These stories breach into the story that the cityscape tells. The pictures offer an uncontrollable narrative, a different one. A narrative that breaks into the alienated nature of lives of Hong Kong-ers. Alienated from one another. Alienated from ourselves.

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Aadityakrishna Sathish is a student at College of the Atlantic, Bar Harbor, ME. He is pursuing a B.A. in Human Ecology. He is from Hong Kong and India. His studies lie in the intersection of post-colonial studies, feminist theory, anthropology, philosophy, and performance. He addresses some of the question they pose through photography.

Olivia Cronk & Philip Sorenson

“All of the Meanwhiles”: Signal Intrusion, Time Travel, Abrasion, Rupture.

          Broadcast signal intrusions are rare. Only three have ever occurred in the United States. The first was in Florida. An HBO broadcast of The Falcon and the Snowman was intruded upon by a consumer complaint. Subscriptions, Captain Midnight announced, were too expensive: “Showtime/ Movie Channel Beware!” The second and third happened in 1987, two separate broadcast signal intrusions within hours, same town. The news on Chicago’s WGN. Then, WTTW’s Sunday night broadcast of Doctor Who. They have the quality of a threat, the paroxysms of a global crisis: capitalism’s death drive producing etchings of its own ruinous-ness. They appear disjointed, allusive, stupid, and eruptive. A kind of release, like gas or treasure, the old tie that binds entrails, hell, and gold. Or, pulled from the evening air, and wedged into a prior schedule. But not like commercials are. Commercials are always expected. But advertisements and intrusions share the quality of a superimposition. Here’s a starship; now we’re talking peanut butter. Intrusions are more like graffiti, a means to reassert presence and expression. “We” re-inscribe the signal to show that “we” “own” the signal. Or, does the interruption become “that text” that Barthes says “we write in our head when we look up”? A distraction from the text and a nullification of the text’s authority? Is a signal intrusion a brief moment where textual authority and hierarchies are subverted? Paroxysm, an unplanned knock, superimposition, re-inscription, nullification, and translation: they wear a mask of Max Headroom and translate a thing in transition, attempting, we think, to remake Max’s anti-capitalist “disguise” into its actual content; they intrude on a text, too, that is transitional: eras and planets, and faces that change even as the characters and situations remain. Dr. Who rewrites Holmes and Watson, which is itself a rewriting of Poe’s Dupin: a pile up of texts and allusions. Interruption and anachronism: time travel.

Max Headroom 1987 broadcast signal intrusion incident. This still is drawn from the Sunday night intrusion upon WTTW’s broadcast of Doctor Who.

          The pirating incident is a form of/ a text for modeling time travel in that it interrupts via pause, like the half-alien/ half-human Evie Ethel Garland from the syndicated television program Out of this World: a text from childhood, a thing that holds our attention, in part, because of its amazing enactment of fantasy. Evie touches her fingers together and time stops around her. This allows her to physically alter her space beneath others’ notice. She’s an agent inside the text who can interrupt the flow of time, but she can still act inside of the new time created by the interruption: the Max Headroom mask talks to the viewer from an impossible time (a space inside of stopped time)—isn’t this part of the terror generated by the event, too? And how unsettling would it be, in the paused moment, to not know where or how this document for insertion was created (did the pirates make a video—say, two weeks before—to simply lay down in the television-space they opened up? Or were viewers imagining themselves to be seeing something created live, as in: the pirates are directly transmitting the talking-mask for all the “newspaper . . . nerds”; they are doing this in our time?). The thrilling and upsetting delivery to our living rooms is of course still achieved, whether they do it in another time (pre-made video) or alongside of us (we were in our homes while they were in their storage space; we/ they were there all along).
          Spaces, viewpoints, and texts seem to insert or obtrude. In fact, looking up from the text is a rupture, a leakage of the private into public. But it’s not displeasing, nor necessarily penetrative. It can be touching. Barthes argues for textually received pleasure through “abrasion”: “the abrasions [we] impose upon the fine surface” of a text provide us with pleasure. But who is acting upon what here? If the pirates are doing the abrasion, they are asking us to join in. The medium simply demands it. Part of the interruption is defiance of expectation. We are in an intimate/ private exchange with the Dr. Who episode; we are alone or gathered round, but it is most commonly a domestic space. Then “Max Headroom” (a familiar head made unfamiliar, made uncanny?) comes in and violates the space. The pirates have abraded episode, and in doing so have delivered to us the (new) pleasure of a defiled surface. And because in our watching we are collaborators, we too are committing the abrasion. What pleasure is greater than this? We are—especially if we were originally viewers who thought the text to be “live”—inside of their theatrical, paused time. The abrasion is upon our living rooms; we’re in the show! The abrasion bridges, then, the BBC, the dying empire’s psychedelic time traveler TV show, the Chicago network and studio that airs it, the mask’s storage space, and our own lives: all of these spaces begin to touch. We are all folded into a private act (note that contemporary news coverage of the event labeled the spanking device a “marital aid”) leaked public or a public act leaked private; we’re bound by the abrasion, we’re linked in dead surveillance, we’re eyes on the abrasion that is emitted and that gathers us in its scarring force.

          Intrusions, and overwritten texts, are far more a feature of everyday experience than they were in 1987. Though, that period’s anxieties surrounding media’s negative dis-/ interruptive effects pervade its art. For example, we see dis-/ interruption re-imagined by Max Headroom’s fictional “blipverts.” Blipverts are thirty-second advertisements that have been condensed to three seconds, so viewer-consumers don’t notice them. There’s no intrusion. Viewers desire to have no “break” from programming. Of course, this innovation just disappears the field upon which the program has been set. The real foundation is the commercial; the viewer-consumer is placed into relation with that field: a brand. By making the advertisement invisible, the consumer has nothing to resist, is not confronted with the product. The loop becomes too small to see. The consumer has no “time to switch channels.” The blipverts in Max Headroom: 20 Minutes into the Future, though, are lethal. They cause some to explode, but only the most perpetual viewers: “The only people who are that inactive are pensioners, the sick, or the unemployed,” states one executive at Network 23, a dystopian transnational typical to the era’s cinema (e.g. Omni Consumer Products from RoboCop or Weyland-Yutani from Alien).
      However, near the program’s end, we see Blank Reg, the cyberpunk proprietor of Big Time TV, an underground network, watching as the truth of blipverts is revealed. Just before the network’s chief executive and chief scientist are forced to confess their crimes on live TV, Blank Reg switches channels. “What a load of bollocks,” he hisses before switching over to a broadcast of Max Headroom reciting his stale jokes. Even without the commercial “break,” the viewer has lost interest.

          Of course, the Internet is cacophonous. Signal intrusions like the interruption in 1987 now occur daily. They are tonally similar, similar in their alignment with absurdity, similar in their reliance on mimesis, similar in their anti-corporate (?) tendencies. They occur, though, not on one scale—the scale of broadcast television—but on an amorphous global/ micro scale. They gestate, or creep outward, or they explode and they make themselves always available for further reproductions, alterations, abrasions, superimpositions, translations, and intrusions. Think of the recent assassination in Ankara. Shocking images are disseminated across the Internet. They are immediately altered. Violence is turned into a set of “iconic” images, which are, in turn, immediately and at a small, though global, scale rendered into memes. You can comically manipulate the assassination with text, though typically with allusion: image-as-non-sequitur. Put Archer’s head on the assassin’s body. Put Freddy Mercury’s head on the assassin’s body. Put Left Shark’s head on, and on with endless fictional and nonfictional faces as masks. The absurd replaceable head as superimposition, as translation, as paroxysm, as sign for the broadcast signal intrusion.
And now the “program” is hand-held. The body carries the screen. When the pirate broke into the Sunday night show, he arrived in the home. The defacement/ abrasion-chain was made upon the screen-within-the-domestic-space (admittedly an often individualized arena, but one in which multiple persons can be/ are often assumed to be present). Now, though, an intrusion upon/ into/ revealed by a screen can often be assumed to be individual—the intrusion comes into/ onto your hand. It’s a Cronenberg movie. It’s the dystopia. It’s a chip placed into your skin without your consent. It’s the CIA watching you through your TV. It’s not that all.

          And what of the head as a tool for social control: biometrics, knowing, and individualization-aggregation for the reconstitution of people as information? Data. Closed borders. Ratings. The face becomes a site for inference, representation, and systemic control: who may enter, who may not, knowing each from each. Our real heads are real cages, as artist Zach Blas shows us in his Face Cages. Or as he demonstrates through Facial Weaponization Communiqué:
      Facial Weaponization Suite protests against biometric facial recognition–and the inequalities
      these technologies propagate–by making “collective masks” . . . from the aggregated facial data
      of participants, resulting in amorphous masks that cannot be detected as human faces by
      biometric facial recognition technologies.
Here, Blas obscures the specific face by transforming it into an aggregate face that resists the force of capture by using the very tools of capture. The face-as-floating-head constructed by state power and commercialization is undermined by more floating heads: full of glitches, opaque, unreadable, collective, and “faceless.” In other words, “We propose to make the face our weapon. . . . A face is like being armed.”
          What of Max, in the pilot, the series, and as an ad-man, who is pure thought, an image of a person’s brain remade as a glitchy identity, dodging away from the uncanny? He’s the promise of a robot: disembodied, geographic, virtual, data-composed, and “disruptive.” He’s an inaccurate image of a currently lived reality: Max is data, as we are the data that stick to our bodies and replace us. “I’m talking ratings,” furiously declares one Network 23 executive. Another replies, “And I’m talking people.” But of course, the first quickly retorts, they’re the “same thing.”

          Interruption and intrusion are different from disruption. To interrupt is to break between, to shoulder into an ongoing system, not to refabricate it (though remaking does happen); interruption shuts it down. Intrusion is a thrusting into; it’s linked to distraction, which is a pulling apart. Intrusion relates to invasion and usurpation. The 1987 intrusion is totally superimposed, like Deleuzian philosophical time (“all of the meanwhiles are superimposed on one another”); it’s spasmodic, and it translates a text that is itself already hopelessly transliterated. Most importantly, the masked and headless intruders got away with it, just like a mirror, which also always seems to “get away with it.”
          The signal intrusion is not merely inter-/ im- in nature; it is also a translation. Watching TV is a kind of reading. The signal intrusion is a translation. Watching a signal intrusion is a different kind of reading. We agree with conceptual writer and artist Tan Lin: “TV watching is not idle time. People philosophize [while] watching TV; the more TV people watch, the more philosophizing they do.” Lin says that channel surfing is a way to meditate. What does it mean, though, when the image shifts against your will, without your lucid pointing of your remote control (here is something, though, about the media in the hand) at your screen? But let’s repeat the sequence/ the circuit: reading, translation, signal intrusion, translation. What the translators “get away with” has to do with their headlessness/ facelessness in the act.
          In a discussion of Hannah Arendt’s The Life of the Mind, excerpted/ anthologized in Currently and Emotion (a text openly seeking instigation of disruption), poet Lisa Robertson writes of “the invisible place of reading” as examined by Arendt. “The activity of thinking is an unanswerable one.” & “Reading resists being seen.” Robertson makes what she says is an “unproblematic segue from thinking to reading because the two activities are . . . folded into one another.” The signal intrusion is a translation. Watching TV is a kind of reading/ thinking. In a discussion of Caroline Bergvall’s work (further on in Currently), poet Laura Goldstein writes that translation is “a constant act of the performance of reading, writing, and displaying language”; the unseen activities of reading and thinking are made seen. The signal intrusion translates Dr. Who. In that act, it makes visible its own thinking. And because of the nature of the medium and the fact of the abrasion, we’re asked, too, to serve as translators, but our co-translators are faceless. And, so, we’re left holding the bag, so to speak. The rupture seems, in a deeply terrifying way to us, to expose the viewer: as if someone installed cameras in your bedroom, your bathroom, or god forbid, right in front of your lifeless face, as you watch/ read the TV.
          A young woman interviewed in the news coverage of the event remarks, “I thought it would be just a slight mess up, but that, that in the middle of the tape, I’m going to have to tape over it.” She was making a record of her reading the TV, a kind of log. This taping of programs, especially in the old VHS mode, might be understood as a translating act, too; it certainly makes seen her viewing of the program. And then, for her, the intrusion spoils the record. The thing is marred, and she will be relegating the act again to the unseen when she erases via “taping over,” though we can assume a kind of buzzing palimpsest remains somewhere.

          Over and again, cinematic science fictions from this era, such as Max Headroom, project bleak futures: ultra violence, virtuality, crassness, and the decay of the commons: “We could go porno. Early.” However, these fictions are meant to 1. suggest a possible future and 2. offer a critique of current trends, in order to 3. resist or correct the social decay. Because they project dystopia forward while suggesting the contemporary root, these texts are “about” anxiety, which, Freud suggests, is just remade guilt. What do these creators and audience feel guilty about? The white authorities must know/ forget/ deny what they’ve done. They don’t want to talk about it. And here is a now/ future where snuff is on your satellite (Videodrome). And here is a future where a person is data, corporations function as governments, and the world drowns in blood (Robocop, etc., etc.). What does it mean that murders are now available on social media? That these images are soon saved and disseminated via YouTube? Has the future come to pass? No. The future was always here in the distant past of right now. The intruders’ broadcast, though, does not project forward. They are not showing “things to come.” They represent the now and the always has been. The intruders show us bad jokes, ridiculous sex, consumerism, spasm, threat. They aren’t selling anything. They’re the screen looking away from the screen. These aren’t satirists; this is anti-allegory. Anne Boyer: “Fed a pabulum of the very bad and told it is the only food, it is no wonder so many people fearfully covet the apocalypse.” The pirates offer, just as any apocalypse-text does, an escape hatch. But unlike, say, the more composed “pleasures” of Art Bell’s throaty voice over the radio or a think-piece on how children will no longer know what snow days are, this text simply arrives with its eyes on us and our eyes on it: it comments on surveillance without evaluation. It hoaxes. It cajoles. It provokes. Its emergence foretells the end. It comments on empire even as it is birthed by such.
          The broadcast signal intrusion is, at least in part, an intersection of multiple imaginaries. Think of what is being interrupted. While this is “public” broadcasting, a space that is ostensibly aligned with the common good against the degradation of public life, the ways in which such spaces are ultimately aligned with larger state and corporate forces need no real explanation here. The intruded upon episode of Dr. Who, “Horror at Fang Rock,” is a story of phobic invasion, modeled—another interleaf—on Lovecraft’s multiply derivative teratological representation of reactionary anxiety in “The Colour Out of Space.” Media and genres slide around, foamy and disassociated. It’s difficult not to imagine these different texts (intrusion and thing being intruded on) in conversation with each other, even though they are on different, yet colliding, platforms. It’s hard to find solid ground, to know the time. We see the start of the twentieth century as represented by 1977: i.e. the height of Imperial England just a month before Never Mind Bollocks, further disturbed by the narrative’s much broader lens, which includes cosmic time, anachronism, and allusion. Doctor Who is from the distant past as well as the distant future. But the sets and effects, the technology and usage, everything is of its period: it’s a mish-mosh. And here is a flat surface, a fortuneteller’s head in a carnival box, the mechanical hand passing to you the appropriately non-specific information.

Olivia Cronk is the author of Skin Horse (Action Books, 2012) and Louise and Louise and Louise (The Lettered Streets Press, 2016), and co-editor of The Journal Petra.

Philip Sorenson is the author of Of Embodies (Rescue Press, 2012) and Solar Trauma (Rescue Press, forthcoming), and co-editor of The Journal Petra.

Matt Schumacher


Amidst amethyst mists silvered with slivers of moon, our astute wanderer of districts of dubious repute parades us down alleyways where we’ll be waylaid. To back rooms whose labyrinthine hookahs billow so copiously with smoke you can hear chambered within them chimneysweeps’ echoing shouts for help. De Quinceyeans under the influence, pleasantly or torturously indisposed, breathe smoke, thick as clothes, smoke both market and theatre. Swipe an opiumpipe. Suckle the world of its inhalations like irresistible tentacles. Play and be played by the night, its night-blooming bassoon improvising the derangements of the mind. Please proceed past the province of complete pipe dream, whose abandoned buildings house the machinery of dreaming. Chase after fledgling hallucinations in the hatcheries of far-fetched reveries. Brave avenues where the multitudes of evil spirits who follow De Quincey flee his disfigured guardian angel.


I guess you’re here for the opium, blurts the suspect. A farmhouse spills delicate, paper-thin crimson from a dead end road in the foothills. Yet come and see De Quincey, small and shimmering man/hologram, shoo away authorities with a small spectral hand, arresting the scene, bruising dusk blue like Psilocybe Cubensis in lieu of his innumerable absences. See the police extinguished like last rays of vanishing daylight. Eavesdrop on the most notorious opium-eater in literary history left there to supervise 500 million dollars worth of opium poppies growing hidden behind honeylocusts. What can he do, what will he do, with the vast span of all of this contraban? O, the expression on his face—what a wild coalsecence, a concession stand of delight, wonder, and fright—it is priceless! There’s no sphinx speaking here of the burden of the incommunicable. As if a homeless drifter inherited a shapeshifting estate from a complete stranger. For the first time, the English Opium-eater glides the palatial stairs, trods their hidden grandeur, and rising on their spiral, fingers careful not to disturb the zebra swallowtail butterflies resting on their handrails, lets these banisters lead him through vast rooms the hue of cumulus adrift in cerulean heights, meadowsized antechambers which are truly scarlet blooms…


De Quincey must play many roles in opium’s postmodern one-man show. Unlike a politician, he speaks firsthand to addicts on the street. Everyone I know is on heroin–he quotes an Ohioan, an addicted mother of three. A third of the U.S.—someone you know—gets destroyed daily on opiods, states his resulting article. And you really must see the English opium-eater as shakyhanded teen, codeine fiend with slurred speech beseeching drug dealers on the streets because he resembles your own child, at least what he’d look like were he homeless and missing. De Quincey as a paramedic injecting narcan into an 11-year-old girl who overdosed. De Quincey as a mule for an Ashtabula county pill mill. As an activist carrying a sign which says: NO MORE DRUG WAR! 36 billion a year and a pandemic! As a policeman paid off by the Taliban, protecting an Afghani opium field with an AK-47. De Quincey as a marketer for a drug campaign, making bank, coyly downplaying addiction in favor of relief from chronic pain. As a judge with no training at all in pharmaceuticals or recovery, prescribing Vivitrol. As an Insys executive who forsakes last stage cancer patients to rake in billions, laughing with another executive in a restroom, while the punchline echoes: fentanyl sells! De Quincey driving a hearse carrying away the bodies of the young from what once were their homes. As a bystander wondering what the fuck is wrong with this country this makes absolutely no sense. Thinking someone sure kicked the living shit out of that white picket fence.


Opium! dread agent of unimaginable pleasure and pain! I had heard of it as I had of manna or of Ambrosia, but no further: how unmeaning a sound was it at that time! what solemn chords does it now strike upon my heart! what heart-quaking vibrations of sad and happy remembrances!
–De Quincey, Confessions

De Quincey died in 1859. He never had his front door smithereened by a SWAT team. Never was tased or pepper-sprayed. Never was sentenced like a young black male facing an all-white jury, locked up for life in Oklahoma for trafficking three ounces of crack cocaine. Never watched the white judge recite his sentence, or heard the state really say, We could arrest their leaders. raid their homes, break up their meetings, and vilify them night after night on the evening news. Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did. De Quincey wasn’t sickened by prison’s fetid, stale air, the click of locking metal doors. The silence when a penitentiary replaces nights filled with stars. Despite his Orientalist nightmares, he was no scapegoat in Saydnaya. He never fled edicts to kill every drug addict. He never had to meet Philippine vigilantes. Men dismembering and indiscriminately killing children. The state’s greatest hope would be to execute the Opium-Eater without trial, pin on him an incriminating sign advertising his use or sale of drugs, and leave him for all to see, dying in the street. A bloodstained example of what not to be.


On a hot July day, De Quincey, high on bath salts, breaks in and decorates a random family home for Christmas. The police break in, too, and find fault, arresting the pale, emaciated poet just when he’s placing the star atop the tree. He’s frisked, booked, and charged with B and E. But wait, the police say… Look at these Christmas lights, this tinsel and these snowglobes! Let no one say this Mr. De Quincey lacks style! Somewhere that damned dandy, Lord Byron, somersaults in his grave, wishing he could be this extravagant, this wild. Then the police become wooden mannequins. They’re merely props that drop through a trapdoor. And Santa Claus—I mean the real Santa Claus—replaces them, ambling in, taking De Quincey’s hand. So saileth away De Quincey in the famed sleigh, into a summer night that drinks the reindeer trail, the galaxy of blinking lights that accompany the siren.

Matt Schumacher, managing editor of the New Fabulist journal, Phantom Drift, lives in Portland, Oregon. His recent poetry collections include Ghost Town Odes and a chapbook of fantastical drinking songs, favorite maritime drinking songs of the miraculous alcoholics.

Christine Stoddard

Christine Stoddard is a writer, artist, and founding Quail Bell Magazine editor. Her work has appeared in the Queens Museum, the Condé Nast Building, the New York Transit Museum, and beyond.

Florence Sunnen

Florence Sunnen is a collagist and short story writer from Luxembourg City. She spent five years as a postgraduate at the University of Warwick, where she recently completed an MFA project. Her work draws from her multilingual upbringing, and searches for a middle ground between creative writing and philosophy. Currently, her favourite poet is Claudine Toutoungi. Florence’s work has appeared in Datableed and The Learned Pig. She lives in Coventry, UK.


ago Mutability Issue


Night by night, I find myself a little more or a little less mutable.
Now now. Pause. The outside melts on the inside.
A poem based on movements and migrations of people across borders.
Trajectories, diseases, and dance language.
The rain ciphers. Rituals morph.
Bodies might become nebulae or verses, and notes.

You will find all these mutations, their moments, phases, imprints, sensations, and nuances to the brilliant works of Louisa Doloksa, David Felix, Amy McCauley, John Morgan, Maria Petrides, Lauren Samblanet, Erica Schreiner, Shakeema Smalls, and Jenny Wu. Many thanks for making this fascinating issue on Mutability.


Dimitra Ioannou


On Superpowers and Beautiful Women

Question: If you could have any superpower, what would you choose?

Answer: I wish I could transform myself into a beautiful woman. I would like to know what it feels like to walk through life with the certainty of beauty, the certainty of womanhood. I would then live a year of my life as a beautiful woman. I would shine bright, seduce and destroy and I would be loved, because I would be a beautiful woman. After a year, I would return to myself, and only think about having been a beautiful woman from time to time. The thing I am, the comfort I take in its excess and lack, is not worth sacrificing, for the sake of a beautiful woman. Still, I wonder, what life would be like for a year as a beautiful woman.

Answer: If I could have two superpowers, I would turn back time and relive select incidents, or even my whole life as a beautiful woman. Take careful notes. Before I turned back time and relived my life as a beautiful woman, I would have taken careful notes too. I suppose , I would turn back time, relive my life, take careful notes up until my decision to relive my life as a beautiful woman, then turn back time and relive my life as a beautiful woman, all the while taking notes. Would I still take notes as a beautiful woman? Do beautiful women take meticulous notes, do they have the time, do they have the strength, the patience for meticulous notes in the midst of the world’s constant demand for their beauty?

Answer: If I could have three superpowers, I would turn back time and relive my whole life as a beautiful woman who could ward off people’s desire with one hand, spin it with the other, and take notes with the other. Then I would compare notes. I would then like to meet someone who also has superpowers. Someone with the ability to transform me into a rather small, invisible nebula. I would enjoy spending eternity, eternally combusting amidst the charred pages of my notes, visible only to myself and through reflection, but capable of sound, particularly of meaningful whispers. I would whisper my observations to others who like I once was, would not be a beautiful woman. I would take every step to assure them that they are not going crazy before I told them my observations. I would introduce them to the right people. I would soon have company, maybe even lovers. We would all compare notes. If we had fingers, they would have been sooty, from exchanging each other’s charred, meticulous notes. If we had bodies, they would have been sooty, from rolling around, and biting, and scratching and licking and sucking and pulling and lightly caressing each other, on a bed of our compared, charred, meticulous notes. That we had once lived our lives as beautiful women, will matter much less than that we have lived our lives not as beautiful women.

Thank you for your questions.

Louisa Doloksa is a bowel artist, poetess and performative fattie. She enjoys talking about her empathy related bowel issues, her emotions, and the political experience of fat femininities.



Bell rung


David Felix is an English visual poet who lives in Denmark. For fifty years or so his writing has taken on a variety of forms, in collage, three dimensions, in galleries, festival performances and video and in over thirty publications worldwide, both print and online. Born into a family of artists, magicians and tailors he still maintains a professional working relationship with a life model, the materializing lady and a fitting assistant.


Amy McCauley works as Editor of Creative Response for the feminist visual arts website MAI Journal. She is interested in trans-genre writing, auto-frictions and feminisms. Amy’s first collection of poetry ‘Oedipa’ will be published by Guillemot Press in 2018.


John Morgan Ararats Gaze

John Morgan’s poems offer a visual engagement with real, imagined or received experience of landscape, place, identity and myth. His writing often responds in situ to the works of other writers and artists, as well as to the land itself and how it receives and ‘writes’ the identity of the person moving through it. His poems have appeared in a glimpse of, The Learned Pig and Reliquiae, but are mostly published on his own website, Visual [writ]/read/[/ing/]:


beyond             da ta

and the mile is smooth
like the Ionian sky

turquoise and
as the wind whistles
spring from the
searing seawater.
there to here, a
cornering line of
british barbed wire
bears vestiges of the
perforated ermou

from UN wire to
unwiring this
naturalised protection
at any rate between
mili(tarrying) jets
flying low
moderate alerts
lying on car windows

autographed by the sovereign
authorities of akrotiri


i smile

airport and subway
post 9/11

interposing my
freedom to choose
how i perceive

a US’s DHS’s

racial profiling
criminalising Muslims
guilty until feigning they are guilty
immigrants and refugees
now attacked by smart enforcement
protection into
racism, islamophobia
we resist
and reverse fear
into tools
of emanating
empowerment, of

barbed fences
hem in and tear
Kurds, Trans Turks, Sex Workers, Roma, Immigrants
tarlabaşı’s communities
from neighbourging beyoğlu.

military tanks anchored in
the central quarter away from the boulevard
demarcating land and air
as buildings are demolished
and denizens evicted.
i’m arrested by the
the gross capital
eating through Istanbul’s
zoned city
barging into
human bodies
reduced to human waste.

where am i,
traversing the caveat
new york
rio de janeiro
the kingdom
stamboul or cyprus.

king’s cross’
marks & spencer
a luggage is
lugged and
left erect,
the onliest
an eye-ray
to its owner.
the queue
by the
grunt of a brash
6-foot frigid


the traveler incriminated
dropped the
pret a manger something
on the fridge’s shelf
in flight for vanishing.
the freedom to suspect
is new law!

in october last
chronic coup in brasil
stumped its macho
neo-lib fist over
pardo and preto
poor and public
slashing subsidies
social education.
over a thousand schools
across brasil were
frenzied and resolved
to oust temer.
the 1%
public parasites are
for a temer.
Bea Camila
Andressa Clarice Felipe
Joao Pedro Vitor Joaquim
and mucho others
occupied the colégio
estadual monteiro de
santa teresa
for 7 months.
in the mean time
working computers never accessed
libraries of fortune in archives dug away
were spotted
on the floor
above the ground level
to which students were
confined when they
were (not)

it breezed from the west.
what’s imminent in
every short moment ()
which terrorist, thief
or muscle?
In a flickering movement beyond,
twinkling vagary
emanates from an
azure at hand.

smile again,
a single smile
this time.
she flaps her wings
as i hum the ladybird away,

and she heads farther
to that military base.

Maria Petrides (b.1973, UK) is an independent writer, editor and translator. She has contributed to magazines/anthologies & art publications. She has participated as writer in residencies in NYC, Nicosia, Istanbul, Helsinki, Rio de Janeiro, Geneva, and curated/coordinated for Gowanus Studio Space, NYC, depo, Istanbul & The Breeder, Athens. She’s translator of Wow, a political comic book by Ariadni Kousela, Patakis Publishers & co-translator of Bill Ayers’, To Teach the Journey, in Comics, contributing author for the collection, A Book of Small Things & assistant editor for Evripides Zantides’, Semiotics: Visual communication II, Cambridge Scholars Publishing.   

Η Μαρία Πετρίδη (γενν.1973, Ηνωμένο Βασίλειο) είναι ανεξάρτητη συγγραφέας, επιμελήτρια κειμένων & μεταφράστρια. Κείμενα της έχουν δημοσιευτεί σε περιοδικά/ανθολογίες & εκδόσεις τεχνών, έχει συμμετάσχει ως συγγραφέας σε residencies στη ΝΥ, Λευκωσία, Κων/πολη, Ελσίνκι, Ρίο Ντε Τζανέιρο, Γενεύη και έχει επιμεληθεί/συμμετείχει σε εκθέσεις στο Gowanus Studio Space, ΝΥ, το DEPO, Kων/πολη και The Breeder, Aθήνα. Είναι μεταφράστρια του πολιτικού κόμικ «Wow» της Χρύσας Ariadni Κουσελά, Εκδόσεις Πατάκη, συν-μεταφράστρια του «To να διδάσκεις, Το ταξίδι σε κόμικς» του Bill Ayers, και συγγραφέας στο A Book of Small Things ενώ είναι βοηθός επιμελήτρια του «Semiotics: Visual communication II» του Ευριπίδη Ζαντίδη.

Lauren Samblanet

From poltergeist residues: rituals for traumatic hauntings

Please click here to read: i. hive

lauren samblanet is a recent graduate of temple university’s mfa program. her poems have been published in a shadow map: an anthology by survivors of sexual assault, queen mob’s teahouse, the vassar review, walkabout and adanna. a dance-radio collaboration with skye hughes was published on colorado public radio’s website and her writings about dance can be found on


Erica Schreiner is an experimental video and performance artist, writer and poet based in New York City. Originally from Oregon, Erica received a BS in Graphic Design from the Art Institute of Portland. Erica attended the School of Visual Arts Lens and Screen Art’s Residency Program. She also studied under the direction of performance artist, Marina Abramović at MoMA PS1, where Marina Abramović, Erica Schreiner, and 11 other performance artists shared a final performance.

Erica Schreiner has completed more than 60 performative video art pieces using a VHS video recorder, including Satori, a feature length film. She’s created music videos for: Soft Metals, Reba Hasko, JF Robitaille, The Crash Engine, and American Anymen, and Fierro Ex Machina.

Erica’s work has shown at the Bill Hodges Gallery in NYC. She been a regular contributor to Nick Knight’s SHOWstudio and has curated the SHOWstudio blog.

Erica published two books of short stories under her label, Analog Cinema. Hellos & Goodbyes (2009) and Arrows (2015) Illustrated by Nyssa Frank. Erica has written several zines, and can regularly be seen performing with the poetry community in NYC. Mad Gleam Press will release her debut novella entitled: The Greatest History of Life by the end of the year (2017). Also scheduled is a collection of poetry entitled: The Plastic Sea (Blue Pear Projects, 2017).


bushwick, 2017.


you walk out of the house
face painted in childhood murals
always RIP & 40oz. altars.
now hype spots for tourists
who, in derangement,
turn your shrines into
neighborhood character.

the home listings read:
‘Wonderful place to raise our kids’
‘Nice place to take a shower in the sunlight’

you wonder
if people still wash their asses outdoors
& whether the children are okay.

there will always be memorials.


the first boy.
    he had to be told
    that pussy don’t smell
    like burnt weave
    & old sunflower seeds.

    it’s 2nd quarter
    he knows how to
    weave cord
    keychains & twist
    outs. they beat
    him till he had
    chainlink tattoos.


which negro spiritual
do we sing at yt cookouts
when faced with
polenta &
textured vegetable protein
speculatively cooked
in discarded pork fat?

certain that there exists
a word
for wading out too far.
not drowning. but integral
integrity integration
ingratiation inflammation
inoculation irradiation



I was at Plymouth Rock in 89
N heard all the banter
Right from the stage of
A basehead’s uterine lining.
I been a snitch since 88,
My eyes on the scuff marks
Of her sneakers
Legs way up in the air
And bowed in not-so-first love.

Primero, my father says.
Silly men do have strange memories.
But I was there
When the ship bumped
And the shit went down
N so when I talk about history, kid
You need to listen.
You got this game for free.

you got a lot

of people
fucking for ten-fold blessings.

in a manner of speaking,
every prosperity gospel
Is attuned to the saints
that deconstructed it.
mass media-in-res
hearings at the Throne
too many questions

our lord wonders
how a nation of men
comes to covet itself.

looking down upon us
children of the fallen
in all our prayers,
the smell of our

early morning tongues
braising the ears
of our protectors.
a holy ringing.

all of our kings
backpedal softly
across the chests
of our children
braided rugs,
& self-loathing.

we never answer our blessings.
our shoes become untied
every step
towards the father,

liniments of verse
charted across our arms in vegetable ink
& trap soul discographies.

waiting to bury our rulers,
we got a lot
of hellish dreams
& purple hearts.


hardest stuff to let go.

gonna wake
in a tub full of ice
knees bent for the day
veins shrunken &
no more of your juice
can be had. when,
perhaps, cold isn’t cold
you begin
to miss daylight
your daddy
hollers off
the building stoop
you must need
on your head.
no more. but
you are turning kind
of blue. as if
you are getting younger
& less memorable
& now, you are
your mother’s space.
she carried you
light years before
her whole body
convulsed in withdrawal
but there was no solace
& you had to come
& die proper
in your sleep.
you dreamed so many
of laying into flesh
with everything, ceased
lights no longer burning
your eyes. the last time
you made a wish
on a star.

Shakeema Smalls is a writer from Georgetown, SC by way of Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in Tidal Basin Review, Kweli Journal, The Fem, Blackberry: A Magazine, The Feminist Wire, Free Black Space, Sugared Water, Vinyl Poetry & Prose, and Muse, with upcoming work in Pittsburgh Poetry Review and Radius. 




When I used to live in the city I had a balcony on the twentieth floor. I discovered on a balcony diagonally above me there sometimes appeared, among the potted plants, a gray dog with a white M for eyebrows, and I would whistle up to him and whisper, “Hey, hey.” He would stick his long snout, then his whole face, through the railing and his ears would flop in the wind and he would glance around at the street, the sky, sometimes at me, and smile in the sunlight. I thought, “Hey, dog, are you having fun?” His gray fur matched perfectly the color of the stones of the building. Sometimes birds flew so close I thought he could bite them if he wanted; we really were way up in the air.
           One morning I was out there again, and I noticed this dog had gotten on the ledge. I whistled, he glanced at me, he glanced at the street. Before I could even wonder he had leaped to his death.


The egoist’s sonnet: “I am, I am, I am, Iamb, Iamb.”


People like to say there was something in the water of America. There was talk of social diseases. An old local politician was revealed to have sat in his seat in the governmental assemblies for thirty years without speaking out once. He was shy.
           Zimbardo’s studies on shyness show, from their perspective, doctors and psychologists and theorists, who were not shy, prodding and yelling at shy test subjects, verbally beating them into effeminate submission. Nearly 1 out of 2 American adults in 1975 confessed, in an anonymous study, to being shy; at first this was classed as a neurosis, an anxiety, a cognitive problem caused by some insidious socio-biological decline in Americans, especially American men. What followed were humiliating studies in which shy people were forced into parties and scrutinized, much like they already suspect they are being scrutinized.
           The researchers suspected that people were overestimating their shyness; maybe not half but only 1% of men are actually shy, they postulated. They sought out the 1% who were so shy they could not leave the house, who had driven themselves crazy. This 1% was easy to spot in a crowd.
           The researchers studied shy children and decided that adult shyness is a case of arrested development, cowardliness. Then the scientists compiled their evidence and began to fear that actually 100% of all people have traces of shyness in them; they themselves noted, at a scientists’ convention, moments of their own unease, when waiting in line at the coffee station, during silences in conversation with those obviously ill-matched for conversation (whether due to differences in intelligence or specialization). They began to fear that the disease was spreading, started spending nights partying (one party lasted 72 hours straight), laughing and dancing just to prove their worth, their charms, their wiles.


A wall on which someone has written, “All walls must fall.”


Marc, an amateur director, got people who weren’t actors together to make a film. The script was full of wine-party scenes, full of cigarettes as props, since Marc didn’t really know how to write yet; the scenes were really just exact replicas of real life. (Really the script was just a bunch of people standing around talking about how they felt.) But even though the “actors” were doing what they normally do anyway, they were tense and self-conscious, so Marc plied them with wine. The “actors” got drunk for real and started getting emotional, as though the lines and the drama of the script were real. Some related to their characters in powerful, inexplicable ways. Some wept. Some really did fall in love that night. Most, by the end, recalled something repressed, yet significant, from childhood and made some casual promises to devote their lives to art.


“I’ve gotten better at reading poetry. I’ve gotten to the point where I can read a series of random letters, even foreign glyphs, and see a picture, grasp a meaning. The best poets can read an oriental rug.” Marc was extremely high and enamored by the rug he was sitting on. It looked, in terms of a feeling, exactly like Matisse’s red studio.

“To accurately plant an image in the reader’s mind, you must express things a tad inaccurately. In order for the reader, for example, to see Gregor Samsa as a man, the reader must first see him as a bug. In order to convey that something was merely okay, one must necessarily say, ‘It was phenomenal; no, it was deplorable.’ If the reader is imagining a beautiful woman, the writer behind the curtain is no doubt describing, in fact, in the most realistic terms possible, the coloration and softness of the skin of a peach. If the writer says ‘one thousand years,’ the reader perceives one pregnant second. In order for a reader, for example, to envision a copper-colored room, one must describe it as a rose-colored room. This problem concerned Duchamp.”

—Marc, On Imagination

“A small discrepancy in data of one or two units out of millions, accreted over a million years, becomes a big discrepancy.”

—Marc, On Time

“There are some people with fundamentally disoriented minds. They’re the ones who do not equate north with up and south with down. They will say they are going ‘down to New York,’ or going ‘up to Miami.’ I do not trust such people. Really though, you can say you’re going ‘down’ to Miami but you can’t say you’re going ‘up’ to New York. If you believe that you’re standing up straight on the spherical earth then you are always at a point where going anywhere means going down.”

—Marc, On Space

“What is it to read poetry? True poetry gives you a feeling even if in a foreign language, even if language-poetry, even if concrete poetry letters scattered across the page. Read the pattern on the rug and get that poetical feeling. La lingua ch’io parlai fu tutta spenta / innanzi che a l’ovra inconsummabile / fosse la gente di Nembròt attenta.


Marc was in the hospital, and all he wanted to do was listen to gameshows and P. J. O’Rourke on the radio. I thought often about the dog on the ledge; in my mind there was a film reel constantly replaying the image of a dog falling head-first, inch by inch, down the facade of a building in grayscale.
           Marc had cancer. I sat by his bed: an attempt to comfort my friend by listing all the names I knew of great men who also died of cancer.
           “Matisse had cancer of the stomach.”
           “Is that so…”
           “Rilke, I believe, succumbed to leukemia.”
           “Napoleon, too—a great man—again, stomach cancer.”

Jenny Wu lives and teaches in St. Louis. Her recent stories appear or are forthcoming in The Ogilvie, Dream Pop Journal, Pour Vida Zine, and elsewhere.



Sometimes I feel allegories are reality, and that reality has yet to begin. The brilliant allegories of resistance, and transformation that inhabit aglimpseof’s pages contain guising, irony, projections, melancholy, anger, and recursions.

Clinton Craig wrote “Goldwater” at the same time as he was reading “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman: “I was inspired by her character’s interior reality, a reality that she was so sure was true, yet was told constantly was simply a hysteria. I don’t know how Gilman would feel about my appropriation of her work, but it was done with great respect and a feeling of urgency spurred by the current political situation (of alternative facts, egocentrism, and rejection of logic) in the United States.”

The texts that Jazmine Linklater used for her collage poems are Freud’s “The Question of Lay Analysis” (Neurose), Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus,” Thomas Nagel’s “The Absurd” (Absurde), and Sartre’s “Existentialism and Humanism” (         Foi).

“By appropriating a linguistic corpus of spam trigger expressions,” Bruno Ministro is “alluding to the performative aspect of words, which are symbolically considered forbidden or allowed by those machinic-built spam filters. What does it mean to be forbidden/allowed in our society? Does this generator work as an true allegory of culture?” This spam generator is for Bruno Ministro “an allegory of all the weird junk people upload to the web, particularly, to social networks. It is somehow what Sandy Baldwin refers to as ‘anomalous web materials.’”

John Morgan started making hand made concertina books on high quality laid paper for his long poems. “From a Stolen Voice” became one of them: “It responds to the idea of differential texts (Marjorie Perloff), where the layout and medium can provide distinctly different reading experiences. Holatyn is one of the old Jewish shtetls that have completely disappeared in western Ukraine. The reference here comes from a novel by Czech writer, Ivan Olbrecht, who uses the name Holatyn in the first chapter of his novel, Nikola the Outlaw (1933), set in WWI in Ruthenia, the region that bordered Slovakia, Ukraine, Hungary and Romania. He refers to it as a mountain in the Carpathians.”

Tom Snarsky’s “Poem” began “as a few unrelated quatrains composed with an 8-syllable line and grew to be a longer meditation on birth and music under the (in?)auspicious sign of mathematics. The poem’s conceit is the Garden of Eden Theorem for cellular automata, which states roughly that an automaton only has a true beginning state (that is, a state with no possible predecessors — a “Garden of Eden”) if that automaton has two states with identical sets of successor states (these are called “twin” states). The poem attempts to explode the kernel at the heart of this theorem outward into history, suspending the usual problematic of birth/origins/creation in favor of the play of twinning & experiment; in so doing, the poem evokes figures like Spinoza, Laurence Sterne, and Alfred Schnittke — all of whom happen to share a birthday. Ultimately, “Poem” tracks a fragmented effort to listen carefully, to attain subjectivity, and then to transform history — or, at the very least, to face the world and speak.”

Many thanks to Mary Alexi, Clinton Craig, Jeremy Hight, Allison Hummel, Anna Lascari, Jazmine Linklater, Erin Lyndal Martin, Bruno Ministro, John Morgan, Tom Snarsky, and Theadora Walsh who made the Allegorical issue deliciously, intriguingly, extremely real.

Dimitra Ioannou


(που η πριγκίπισσα δεν κατάφερνε να κοιμηθεί γιατί κάτω από το στρώμα της υπήρχε ένα δόντι)

Έβγαλα το φρονιμίτη μου
πιθανώς τον τελευταίο.
Έχω βγάλει τρεις, όλοι στραβοί.
Toυς άφησα σε καίρια σημεία για τη νεράιδα
η Νεράιδα είναι καλή
η Νεράιδα είναι στωική
η Νεράιδα είναι στοργική
η Νεράιδα παίρνει κομματάκια αίμα οστά και ούλα και τα κάνει χρυσάφι.

Ο πρώτος δε με πόνεσε, βγήκε ακέραιος
Η Oδοντίατρος τον άφησε δίπλα μου πάνω στο αποστειρωμένο τραπέζι.
Η Oδοντίατρος είναι προσεχτική
η Oδοντίατρος έχει ελαφριά χέρια
η Oδοντίατρος είναι για όταν ο φρονιμίτης είναι για να βγει ακέραιος.
Τον πήρα στην τσέπη του μπουφάν μου, έκλεισα εισιτήρια, γύρισα σπίτι
τον ακούμπησα στο μαξιλάρι του πατέρα μου, έκλεισα εισιτήριο, γύρισα πίσω
ένα δόντι λιγότερη.
Η Νεράιδα τον μάζεψε και ένα μήνα μετά ο πατέρας μου με πήρε τηλέφωνο.

Ο δεύτερος δε βγήκε ποτέ, μόνο έσπρωχνε και έσπρωχνε
Ο Γναθοχειρουργός είναι λεπτομερής
ο Γναθοχειρουργός είναι αποφασιστικός
έβγαλε σε τρία κομμάτια κάτι που ίσως γινόταν δόντι
το ακούμπησε σε τρεις χαρτοπετσέτες.
Γλίτσα, σάλιο, αίμα- τον έκλεισα σε ένα φάκελο και τον έστειλα στον πρώτο μου γκόμενο
με διεύθυνση κάποιο πάρκινγκ και παραλήπτη μόνο όνομα
γιατί είχαμε πιεί αρκετά και δε θυμάμαι πολλά εκτός από τα αίματα στο κάθισμα.
Η Νεράιδα δυσκολεύεται να παρκάρει
η Νεράιδα έχει θέμα με την αντίληψη του χώρου αλλά
νομίζω ότι τον βρήκε
γιατί ένα μήνα μετά μου δώσανε την πρώτη μου δουλειά σαν σερβιτόρα.
Λάκι μι.

Η Σερβιτόρα είναι πειθήνια
η Σερβιτόρα δεν ξεχνάει
η Σερβιτόρα πάει στο Γναθοχειρουργό
να βγάλει ακόμα έναν φρονιμίτη
που κανείς δεν ξέρει αν έχει χώρο να βγει, αλλά πονάει
άρα αποφασίζουμε όλοι μαζί- ο Γναθοχειρουργός-
να σπάσουμε ένα κομμάτι οστού και να τον τραβήξουμε
να τελειώνουμε μια ώρα αρχύτερα.

Η Σερβιτόρα παίρνει ένα δόντι στις παλάμες της
που μοιάζει με τα πρώτα δόντια
που βγάζαμε μωρά
ένα φρονιμίτη νεογιλό
και τον φυλάει στο συρτάρι του μπάνιου
μέχρι να σκεφτεί τι θα τον κάνει

η Νεράιδα μπερδεύεται
η Νεράιδα πολύ συχνά δε σκέφτεται τις πιθανότητες
Έβγαλα τον φρονιμίτη μου και τον ξέχασα στο ντουλαπάκι της τουαλέτας
και το Σάββατο η Νεράιδα ήρθε να τον πάρει ενώ έκανα μπάνιο

η Νεράιδα είναι όμορφη
η Νεράιδα με έστειλε στο διάολο που την έβαλα να κάνει
τσάμπα ταξίδι
η Νεράιδα είναι κουρασμένη να είναι όμορφη
η Νεράιδα ήθελε να γίνει Γναθοχειρουργός
αλλά κανείς δεν τη ρώτησε

η Νεράιδα μπήκε στη μπανιέρα

έμεινα μαζί της, πήρα και τον φρονιμίτη μου
έφτιαξα καφέ κάναμε μερικά τσιγάρα πέρασε η ώρα
Η Νεράιδα και η Σερβιτόρα είναι άνεργες
η Νεράιδα είναι Γυναίκα
πίνει φρέντο εσπρέσο μέτριο και καπνίζει καρέλια πορτοκαλί.
η Νεράιδα παίρνει σκουπίδια και τα κάνει θυμό.
Και, κυρίως,
η Νεράιδα είναι καλή
η Νεράιδα καταλαβαίνει.

Λάκι γιου:
η Νεράιδα θα σας στείλει στο διάολο αν την ξαναφωνάξετε
να μαζέψει το αίμα, τη γλίτσα και τα ούλα σας.


(The one with the princess not sleeping because there was a tooth under her mattress)

I had my wisdom tooth removed
possibly the last one.
This is my third one, all three grew crooked.
I left them on crucial spots for the tooth fairy to find

the Fairy is kind
the Fairy is tolerant
the Fairy is tender
the Fairy takes pieces of blood, bones and gums and turns them into gold.

The first one didn’t hurt, it came out whole.
The Dentist left it next to me on the sterilized table
the Dentist is careful
the Dentist is gentle
She is appropriate when the wisdom tooth is to be taken out whole.
I put it in my jacket’s pocket, booked a flight, went Home
I placed it on my father’s pillow, booked another flight, got back
a tooth less.
The Fairy picked it up. A month later my father called me.

The second one never grew, it kept pushing and pushing

the Oral surgeon is decisive
he removed in three pieces something that could become a tooth
he placed them on three different napkins.
Slime, spit, blood – I tucked them in an envelope and sent them to my first boyfriend
addressed to some parking lot and no last name
for we were drunk and I don’t recall much apart from the blood on the back seat.
The Fairy can’t handle parking very well
the Fairy struggles with the perception of space but
I think she found them
as a month later I got my first job as a waitress
Lucky me.

The Waitress is obedient
the Waitress does not forget.
The Waitress goes to the Oral Surgeon
to have yet another wisdom tooth removed

that no one knows if there is still place for it to grow, but it hurts
so we decide unanimously – the Oral Surgeon –
to break some bone and pull it out
to get it over with.

The Waitress holds a tooth in her palms
resembling something like
baby teeth
a wisdom tooth premature
she keeps It in the bathroom cupboard
until she figures out what to do with it

the Fairy is confused
the Fairy doesn’t often think of the possibilities.
I had my wisdom tooth removed, I left it in the bathroom cupboard
and forgot about it
on saturday the Fairy came to pick it up, while I was in the shower

the Fairy is beautiful
the Fairy told me to go to the hell
for making her come all the way for nothing
the Fairy is tired of being beautiful
the Fairy wanted to be an Oral Surgeon
but nobody asked her

the Fairy got in the shower

I stayed, I even took my wisdom tooth with us
we showered
I made coffee, we smoked some cigarettes, time passed by.
the Fairy and the Waitress are unemployed.
The Fairy is a Woman
she drinks her coffee with milk, and smokes marbloros
the Fairy collects trash and turn it into anger.
And, above all
the Fairy is kind
the Fairy understands

Lucky you:
the Fairy will tell you to go to hell if you ever call her again
to pick up your blood, slime and gums.

Γεννήθηκα το 1990, στο Ηράκλειο Κρήτης. Ζω στη Θεσσαλονίκη. Δουλεύω σε διάφορες δουλειές, γιατί πρέπει να επιβιώσω. Και γράφω πολύ, γιατί δεν πρέπει. Το πρώτο μου βιβλίο ποίησης, κυκλοφόρησε από τις εκδόσεις Πολύτροπον, με τον τίτλο «Αλάτι». Παλιότερη δουλειά μου βρίσκεται στο μπλογκ

I was born in 1990, in Heraklion, Creta. I live in Thessaloniki. I do a lot different jobs, cause I have to survive. And I write a lot, cause I do not have to. My first poetry collection, named ‘Alati’, was published by the publishing house ‘Polytropon’. Μy earlier poems are published in my personal blog



Please click here to read: Clinton Craig Goldwater

Clinton Craig received his MFA from Western Kentucky University. This fall, he will attend the PhD program at University of Louisiana, Lafayette. His work has appeared in Tammy, Microtext 2 (Medusa’s Laugh Press), and Crow Hollow 19. He is from Flagstaff, Arizona.


Bury me

Bury me in warm memes. Send off the world as it nears its end with shimmering emoji. May the photoshop manicured selfies gird against mortality and the soil of the grave.

Bury me in erasure. Take the tiny porch light flicker of a soul, the algorithm of days, the data nexus of skin and memory. Hurl my eventual end past the dull glow of the cycloptic eye en-masse, the social media collective dulled and spasming with likes and video.

Bury me in the skin of old photos. The tensile way of body first entering cooler water in warm night star ashed or soon to rain. Tuck me away into Polaroids for whatever is to come. May film be bunker. May once exposure, that gently stolen bit of past sun warm as whatever is coming draws near.

A monster with an oversized tie teases world war with 140 characters in the bowels of night. He beckons economic collapse with each foolish childish utterance.

Cover me in the shelter of away, of past, of not here, of not now, please.


The old online photos were opened and drained for fluids. Waters and drinks came out in tiny portions to be stored. The people made a small sound no one knew film had captured but then it was gone. Some were even words said to whoever the photographer was. Suns burned again for a second and breezes rode out from long past afternoons. The phd student had figured out that a filmic moment was a stilled film be it a second. He also found a way to extract the essence of what was captured after scanning the photos and tying them to a scent and flavor database and algorithm.

The result was at once a beginning and cliff end. One bled of sensory breath images simply were themselves again but the warmth was enough to heat his tired hands before closing the lab door to go sleep.

What remains from the erasure of my short story 4532 oak drive

I wrote a short story, stopped its publication, and have been slowly spreading the short story across banal seemingly utilitarian websites I have created. The concept is can a narrative burst open across the net and still resonate…can the dull web be art? Here are the core websites I made

and a meta video of all that was lost when the initial story was erased:

Jeremy Hight is the author of two books with a third soon. His book “What Remains” (published by Free Dogma Press) is a short story collection composed by taking all tech and sci fi out of sci fi films and taking what remains into prose. His collaborative narrative work once edited live by earthquake data, “Carrizo Parkfield Diaries” is in the Whitney museum artport. He is currently working with Damon Loren Baker on prose that changes based on how it is read. He teaches Creative Writing and English Comp and lives with his soul mate Lisa and his amazing cat Samson.


My Dream of Your Runes

There is rune like a pictograph and rune like a large stone in grass, covered
in pictographs and

I have known both of them now: unrelated twins such as these
could cipher whole universes for me

(although I am dulled to the slight inclines

of asphalt and resting garbage that are

the outside. And I walk as if through a slough; life on earth can be heavy with drag.)

I have an image, lately, whipping in my mind like a pennant: a reminder of what I cannot cease to resist:
It is me and I am on my knees, and I have both arms wrapped around my head, as if expecting

a hail of matter from space,

sudden curtain of jagged rock and cosmic metal.

It is a sort of pictograph, it means,

My Dream of Your Runes.

(A rune can be bone fragment, shard of poem. Brought to rest on corporeal plane,

it means merely token

some drudged up penny that speaks of simple love, not of darkness, Byzantine and futile.)

But here,

untouched by Iron Age, I could claw strata forever and only hit clay.

I could eat the clay, and call it bread.

There is more darkness around than I care to palpate

(“ It is me and I am on my knees, ”)

and luck is effectively fate’s opposite, especially if, like Gunnhild, you’re being drowned in a bog.

I place her image inside of my body, suspended in cytoplasm;

her bones don’t scrape me.

I see her as pictograph, made abstract by time. As body of text, of

My Dream of Your Runes,

strong, like a saga hero

with blue teeth and unfixed eyes

acknowledging, disregarding, continuing- with
wrathful freedom,

utter sweetness

Allison Hummel is a poet living on the Northeast side of Los Angeles. Previous works include two chapbooks, Beauty State (2013) and Vessels (2016.) She is always amenable to pen pals and collaborations.