Three Poems | by Trista Edwards

An Extraordinary Delivery of Rabbits

First it looked like a pig’s bladder, then a cat’s paw
& afterward rabbits, one after another.

Eleven in all fell from her warren. Creatix of colony,
Mother of mothers. An inedible feast unto herself.

Taken before she could coddle the wet fur, before she
could lick her lips in anticipation, the doctor pickled

their slack bodies & lined the jars on his mantle.
Stillborn meat poisons the blood. So many believed

this to be true. A country woman births a brood of rabbits
So many said she was hungry. Starved. Continue reading “Three Poems | by Trista Edwards”

Two Poems | by Stephen Langlois

Targeted Individuals

Each week we gather here in the basement of
the Unitarian Church of All Souls. There are rules
to be followed. We follow the rules. We all speak
in turn. We don’t interrupt. Don’t ever interrupt.
Withhold expressions of disbelief. Be supportive!
Please keep activist plans PEACEFUL & LEGAL,

so says the sign tacked to the corkboard. What
should be done in the case of infiltration? Truth is,
we might not ever know if infiltration has
occurred. Don’t reveal your actual name. Don’t
share your phone number. That’s common
sense. Be humble. Be thankful! What of lobbying Continue reading “Two Poems | by Stephen Langlois”

One Micro, One Poem | by Kelly Glover


A guy in a Miata is always middle aged. He wears a hat to hide his balding head, the back of his hair grows long so it curls out from under the cap, giving the appearance that there is more hair under there. A bitch in a Camaro lets her mane fly through the t-top. Sunglasses hide her insecurities. A dude in a Miata wants to be sexy and a bitch in a Camaro wants to be tough.

What about the mom in the Odyssey minivan? Her husband abandoned her and the kids, so of course she gets the transport. A dick in a BMW likes to drive fast through women and stoplights. A dick in a BMW fits quite nicely in the Odyssey as needed. Continue reading “One Micro, One Poem | by Kelly Glover”

Manifesto for Creative Neurodivergence | by Andrea Lambert

As a mentally ill writer and artist? I’m a disability porn star. With an online peepshow window of masturbatory personal essays. Lucky my only sex work is metaphoric. Given my mind is broken, I’m surprised not to have to sell my body. I survive by government Disability benefits and familial patronage. Comfort my shame with art therapy.

College poet friends were consumed by the Portland sex industry. Wipe the Nars Orgasm Blush and Urban Decay Heavy Metal Glitter Eyeliner off my face? Narrowly escaped stripper stares back. I wrote erotica for San Francisco rent money before that porn site went out of business. Failed even at sex work. Never learned how to work that pole. Missed my window. Is it sad? Continue reading “Manifesto for Creative Neurodivergence | by Andrea Lambert”

Stuff and Nonsense | by Matt McManus

     Today, why today, I was walking along and thinking to myself a little something about Kant and how his philosophy was so much more beautiful than people gave it credit for. Indeed, you think about the idea that we must believe everything has a purpose to make sense of it. How strange and wonderful a thing to tell us in this day and age when the only purpose that matters is our purpose, he one we decide on. Of course this is also consistent with what he is saying about the starting point always being our mind, but different because the end point will always have to be God. God, God, do not make me a God. I am so much less content here, drudging it out over the hills and far away from you so that the journey back could mean so much more than the climax which words stunted candles that they are could never express. There’s an old expression out there about the need of artistic types for some kind of trauma to inspire them to write; remember old Marlowe’s decision to come up with a fictional yarn because the truth was “too dark” by far. That’s why I’ve always been unsure about fiction, because what it the point of trying to make bring light and resonance to something when that’s not the way it actually might have been. What right did we ever have to say the world was a certain way when we are not the world and yet are sanctioned to be a part of it? I remember when I was very young waking up next to the most beautiful girl who could ever live (and that is not fiction) and looking out her window. There were some children playing basketball outside in the afternoon sunlight and they’d been laughing so loud that it had woken me up from my own dogmatic slumber. That laughter, the bppppp bpppp bppp of the ball against the hard concrete court. That innocent sounds was a contemptuous blast against everything that I’d been before, every part of me that had tried to be more than the world within the withoutness of myself. I turned and looked back at her as she was sleeping so calmly, the sleep of love drunk angels, and knew then what I had to do was destroy everything that had been instinctual and powerful before, all the drives and neuroses that led me to think about Kant and Einstein and God and the silly little boys and girls who played at creating their own private universes when relating to the actual darkness of the one outside became too much. Too dark, indeed, it is always too dark when there is nothing more than physical light and we do not know what it even means for something to be “physical.” Think about Pynchon’s rocket and the way it arched like a rainbow before falling into London, that constipated place in an old and tired wound where centuries of exquisite culture and ceaseless antlike activity is taken to mean opinion and truth because it is what makes us who we “are.” Without light there could be no rainbow, and without the physical we could not die and all of this would be some grand comedy where every infinite possibility for each person was realized into an indefinable and yet paradoxically certain eternity. Every light we cast on things is just a reflection of our own darkness, what we cannot abide seeing and so we create our stories and our myths and our cultures to brighten things as brilliantly as that Christmas season where the girl and I walked the cobble stoned streets of a city centuries malfunctioning and were both entirely happy and somehow at one separated from everything. What I wouldn’t give to see that giant German beer touch her lips again, her eyelids just barely squinting upwards beyond the foamy head that separated the girl from my eyes and lips, the torch bearers of who I “essentially” am when those stunted candles are not enough. Or perhaps they are. Perhaps they should be. Why is it that when I say, “I love you” it does not mean nearly enough to me anymore? It means everything it can to you. But that is not enough for me. Understanding nothing would only ever be enough, because that would help me grasp what the unbearable but true distance is that made 2 into 1+1.
Continue reading “Stuff and Nonsense | by Matt McManus”

Non, No | by Nooks Krannie

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. Continue reading Non, No | by Nooks Krannie”