True, when we try to understand, we are leaping open armed into our own
ignorance. It’s impossible to put everything in order when we can’t even agree
where order begins. One strategy is to abandon any attempt, or risk going mad.

But at one time we possessed certainty: we saw the sky as a collection of companion
bonfires. In fact, one theory states these distant flames are the source of our own
alien origins, and yes, this is the reason I, as a child, would often press an ear up
against old trees—I hoped to hear the escape of some cosmic inertia. That rumble
which moves never ceasing into emptiness.

Once in a dream I thought I witnessed this indifferent conquest. I stood on the edge
of reality, watched everything expand into nothing, no steady movement, but
random, crystalline cracks, pregnant with possibility. What would you do?

America Is a Desert of Drugs Where the Only Water Tastes Like Antifreeze

I’m plunked on an Adirondack Chair on my back deck and it’s Friday night
Three weeks sober
I hear that if you make it to 90 days then you’re onto something
I also hear airplanes in the sky speaking in tongues
It’s finally summer here
Or at least it feels like it

Carly’s inside lying on the couch watching House of Cards
Tom’s sitting across from me writing poetry on my laptop
There’s this half-dead tree staring at me
Half of it covered in leaves that blow when there’s coke in the air
The other half just branches with buds never smoked
I’m not too sure which is the better half

And those planes overhead
They’ll be dropping people off at airports I’ll probably never see
Lovers I’ll never taste, baggage I’ll never have


And I am still here: the house
holds up under warring clouds and sun.
My bedroom is square and white and the hall stairs
rasp and chirr. The cellar ghost cries in my woodpiles,
the sacks of grain. Maybe what it needs now
is some fat, some salt. Not my meager keening
or blood. But something from the pantry
perhaps. My cans of oily chilies,
my pearly mayonnaise. (more…)

A Sonnet to the Siren Lizanka

Dirty green hair, sharp pointy teeth, kind-hearted


Plump patterns have contrived to stagger along the path made to stand

For the flashiest of the targeted but put to esteem the rather not vented

What could have to be the least of the matters has engrossed the noose

For her straggly pertinent and overshadowed was the rather resulted bland

Put to confabulate and release those of the mesmerized and mere cheated

What could have to reside with the mere unsatisfied was her esteem loose (more…)

14th March


The bed smelled of Ikea meatballs in brown sauce and my brown vagina. The smoke was not letting up and I was drowning on your bed. I looked out of the window after days of not feeling anything other than your cum on my neck. The cum was still there, dried and flaking off as if my skin had claimed it a part of itself. The sun was hitting granite and ‘je me souviens’ on burnt rubber tires, incomplete clouds hid, ashamed of my mouth and breath. Your cum was still on my tongue, in the back and I could taste it in my consciousness and I remembered I didn’t know any words.


You had gone out for a smoke and $2 coffee at the corner depanneur. It was the first time you had left me alone in 8 days. I was scared you had quit smoking and would never leave. You cut my nails before you left so I wouldn’t scratch my throat because I had cried earlier when my face was deep inside your plush mattress. My throat carried your burden separately from my body and I wanted to give you my throat, it had more of you than me. It belonged to you. (more…)

     I finally caught her.

     She was a mass of tangled hair, rags and spit, kicking and scratching when I carried her back to my hut. Here, where it bordered between Upper Layer and Lower Tier, I was a scrap-collector.

     When I tried to wash her, she fought. I was assailed with doubt. Maybe it was wrong of me to bring in a … wild child. Maybe it was not right. Maybe I should release her and let her go back to whatever she belonged, lived, ate. I wondered what she thought of me: a tall young man or a slender young woman, pale because of the lack of sun.

     Dirt came off her in a pool of black and brown, swirling into the hole. It was a struggle to wash her hair; it was all knotted and gnarled. Washed, it was long and curly, tinged with a natural brown. Where was she from? She looked like a child of four or five, but her eyes were intense, piercing. Like my amber glass shone through with light. (more…)

The Serpent That Calls The Marsh

The serpent that calls the marsh
Speaks with a tongue of frothing wisdom.
He sees the life that lurks
Beneath the waves. His forkèd evil
Sways the tides and those who walk
Between the lucid planes ascertain
His presence most of all. Is there
No hope for those who’ve fallen
Deep within his coils? Is there
No hope for those who hear his call
In nights of sulfur, when Saturn’s
Moons come hurling down and sears
The flesh of praying tongues?


Child, Bestiary


Whilst in the gulag house you nurslings turned your eyes from humans. You’d seen enough of the taxidermist’s tactics, stuffing infant skins with malignant demon spirits. You looked up. Witnessed a constellation of neon, the zoological firmament of the zodiac system. Heard the barks of the antique beasts of the stratosphere, saw the claw, clavicle and femur reach of the bestial corpus in the gaping heavens above. Stretched your gangrene forms out wide in your star-pools of blood. Some days, in your ardour you were Cancer. Others, you was Delphinus, fathoms deep in afterbirth. You’ve been Draco the dragon, Monoceros the unicorn. In the folktale of your fawnhood you swore that you shall return starward before you’ll ever become adults. (more…)

This is Julie Collins back with our second interview with Dook, the representative of the Yeti, or as they say, the Angwin.

Collins: What has happened since I last talked to you? I know that you wanted to get agreement on an Angwin homeland.

Dook: There have been bumps along the way, but we never thought that it would be easy. We share with humans the idea that we should hope for the best, expect the worst.  We’ve made little obvious progress towards our goal, and there have been threats against us, mostly against me. We know that we will prevail however.

Collins: Are you doing something to protect yourself and your people?

Dook: Yes, but I’ll get to that later. (more…)