by Nolan Allan on June 27, 2017
it always seems like honking makes the city
bigger than usual
on most days. you told me you wanted me
to tell you when the reign of seafood was over, but
first, witness agave leaves ablaze,
wads of green
spikes browning deeply to
curly wafts gathered near
your face, like smoke unmade
from a once and future king’s
spice filled censer served a la mode
from a roadside stand, sturdy walls
glazed in ozone
and pocked with abalone bits, proprietors
sworn to grill soft shell shrimp, tiny
appendages, pincering mandibles, all
consumed by the infuscate water disappeared
down the sinkhole growing
inside. your soft neck blows about me
(do you remember what i was talking
about about like ten lines ago?
oh, your face and smoke? again? ok, thanks). i tile wood
floors with coins rather than tiles, so really
it’s more like harboring a villain
than anything else, or perhaps like burying
ligamental chunks of you
for to grow in the blood
red clay and bewitched moss
my house rests on.
all in all, i think it’s just got to be
your touched destiny
and me, and then some
out of the loop obelisk guts
we CTRL + S’d for eternity
in talking cookie jars
shaped like thieving bears
whom get their stinking paws off on
my collection of unfulfilled promise
rings melted down and recast
imperfectly into planet shaped musket balls.
to sit still until birds call out
in the rain
your table is ready.
when you visit the sea
the waves are saying something
“we miss you”
even though i don’t know
i think this
gestures across the two of us
could be as true as all that
gestures above the two of us
by Ritapa Neogi on June 25, 2017
If we were entirely made by thread, I’d be the red yarn.
There is something about rods and cones
that doesn’t seem to like danger. They work like facets on diamonds,
sample lipstick at the grocery, white letters on stop signs;
like the word “caramel” when I say it.
God, I just want to be important. I just want to be someone real.
The early autumn leaves have me thinking deep crimson hue is only okay
when it’s fifty miles early and I should’ve expected it. People don’t like that color:
it’s like being hit in the face with a shit-ton of bricks, and nobody wants
to be met with something real.
What’s the fun in being real when you have to prove it? Let’s see,
I have a dog. When I was four I stepped on a nail and had it taken out with tweezers;
when I was seventeen I glued cigarettes into scrapbooks. When I was old enough
to call bullshit on Andy Warhol, I made a choker out of tabs off Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and a severed G string from my guitar. Sometimes,
I sit in bed and wonder how to shed eyelashes
and the effects of antidepressants on women taking birth control.
World history probably warned me about this:
being a bitch is like manhandling a group project,
everyone drowns you in praise ‘til you fuck up. I’m waiting for you to smoke it off.
I’m waiting for you to stare at the sea ‘til you’re positive there’s something there.
Under all these deeply damaged layers of artificial material and cheaply-crafted plastic,
there’s something there, and I can’t believe it’d take a bachelor’s degree to see it.