 Adrienne Novy is a Jewish and disabled artist, Bettering American Poetry and Pushcart Prize nominee, and graduate from Hamline University’s Creative Writing program. She is the author of Crowd Surfing With God (Half Mystic Press, 2018) and the mini-chapbooks, We Have Each Other’s Flowers (Zines + Things, 2020) and Pull (Ginger Bug Press, 2020). Her most recent work can be found in Vagabond City Lit and “You Flower/ You Feast: An Anthology of Prose, Poems, & Plays inspired by Harry Styles”. She lives in the Upper Midwest and has a cat named Laurie. portrait of the artist as lights up by harry styles, sequins soaked in the pacific ocean, 2019
since i sleep in the dark alone, i fold into the hum & glow of me. a finger is drawn down my torso & becomes a prickly scrambling. the boys who wouldn’t look twice at me in high school like my instagram photos now. none of them know i smell like lemons when i really try, or feel more like me submerged in bubbling water, like a torpid knife embracing the harvest, my body is inconsistent in its want & gratitude--i’m sorry by the way, the sour of being encased in skin—is much messier than anticipated, i do not desire myself unless someone else is hungry. i would make the mirror prism its growl if i could. falling by harry styles is actually about mental health recovery & I will die on this hill, whether it is made of gold or not. my hands, a scaffold, a benevolent temple, dedicated to some new & warm g-d, i pray for a freezer full of ice packs & a kitchen sink free of dishes, thankful to be drenched in amber that is only the sun in the morning &, even so, what am I now if I’m someone I don’t want around, undeserving of joys such as iridescent nail polish & the breeze from tulle blouses? I call my therapist, sobbing. Someone somewhere is playing piano at the bottom of the ocean.
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 Daniel Garcia's essays appear or are forthcoming in SLICE, Denver Quarterly, The Offing, Ninth Letter, Guernica, Hayden’s Ferry Review and elsewhere. Poems appear or are forthcoming in The Puritan, Harbor Review, The Arkansas International, Ploughshares, Zone 3 and others. A recipient of a Short Prose Prize from Bat City Review and a Poetry Prize from So to Speak, Daniel has received awards and scholarships from Tin House, the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference, the New York State Summer Writers Institute, and currently serves as a reader and editorial assistant for Split Lip Magazine. Daniel’s essays also appear as Notables in The Best American Essays. essay on girlhood
n. | definition: the balmy bouquet of a mouth always burgeoning into summer / a kind of blue often confused for a shape like sinking but more / the ocean in all her tumbling / arms vast enough to ribbon an entire planet & still find room for me whenever i ask if she has any to spare / the way she says always babe / the mouth that becomes a dressing room & / me as the bouquet blooming from it / hands curled around booty shorts / a scrapcloth the color of wine / that which i didn’t think could hold / the soft of my thighs like i would my mother’s when i stepped into them / the light that finds my teeth before my tears / the word pretty perched above my lips while the cashier rings everything up like / a handful of sand pressed into / a pearl i’ve waited all this time to see / a sunset just outside the glass doors & not enough world to fit it all Daydream In the dressing room before the ceremony, my mother’s thumb works across my cheek. Like a secret tucked behind my ear, there’s a rose plaited into my hair. Pink, thornless. She’s the only one I’d want walking me through the trellis, the first set of hands to meet me in the world, last before I find his. I’m becoming a wife I need to be. I came here shoeless & singing & today I’m doing it all over again. If I look past the window, the ocean is chittering & halo- draped in sunset. Before each other, we’re both so young. Her assessment is simple: You look so beautiful. I’m not sure who says it, my mother or the waves, but she’s looking at me like a woman. She’s about to give me away. We’re crying.  Brendan Joyce is an unemployed worker from Cleveland, Ohio, the co-organizer of Grieveland and the author of the collections Love & Solidarity and Character Limit. moving day
this city would be smaller if cars were illegal though we’d have to drag that desk across town then walk back to grab the mattress & then again twice for the couch (it’s two pieces) a new color made from what was once grey sponging up the light late May rain I found so much from a few different decades packing (how can moving be so many things? as nostalgic as it is hard as it is reinvigorating) that blue corduroy snapback from when the nun took us to sit courtside (before Lebron) when Eric Snow was about the best we could get (Zydrunas spit all over your lap) the Whitney ticket from a first date and the hospital bracelet from the last the New York magazine you gave me a few months after I got sober with Philip Seymour Hoffman’s dead face on the front yesterday while cataloging these morbid kindnesses I realized this is my seventeenth time moving last summer (here he goes again) I sat on that porch with you and watched them build that house. The day I moved out they had almost finished.  Sanna Wani lives between Mississauga and Srinagar. She loves daisies. Verisimilitude after Rankine  Dorsal after Mitski   Raphael prefers to go by Ralph, as he feels it suits him better and he’s heard every Ninja Turtle joke ever uttered. He is a native of Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Kentucky with his Boo-thang and their four-year-old boy. He is a chef by day and an essayist, poet, screenwriter in his dreams. He, like Issa Rae, is rooting for everybody Black. His work has been featured (or is forthcoming) on his mama’s fridge, his close friends’ inboxes, Hobart, 3 Elements Review, HASH Journal, Frontier Poetry, and All Guts No Glory. Follow him on twitter: @RALPHEEBOI I wish Jordan Peele could have released Get Out 400 years ago
to serve as a warning to all the humans who would become niggers, to let them know they have reason to fear the arriving ships, to let them know our bodies are honey- laced diamonds ripe for pillaging, to prove the drinking gourd won’t lead us home, to show them our blood still waters the cottonseeds, to help them choose Olokun’s mouth over this land of loss, as their savior won’t know us, their fields will choke us, our tongues will be blanched in bleach, their law will disembowel us, their dreams will wring us broken, our cities will wail as tinder, and we’ll never be done drowning in their western civilization Grandpa’s Detroit #1 A shack deep in a thick wood of elm becomes a sanctuary when duh moon high. Mistuh Bandleaduh counts off somethin’ swingin’ in A-minuh & duh prettiest gals you ever seen, conk-laid cats in arm, high-step onto duh dance floor in ten-dollah suits and handmade gowns danglin’ ovuh sticky tiles. Duh brass gallops along wit ‘em, one trumpeter is sweatin’ but leanin’ on his horn, makin’ it bark somethin’ wild. He make it swang round duh room like a loose firehose. He give duh music all duh winds in his body. Doctuh Bass-man pluck his walk in 3/4 while Piano Jim teach duh keys how to keep duh people feets on fire. Duh sweet name of Jesus ain’t too much called out in’nis church, but duh’kasional Lawd a’mercy!! sho’nuff will get heaved up to duh smoky rafters when duh horns’ wangin’ & Mistuh Bandleaduh’s raspy holla’ touch on someone just right, make em’ sing back. Dis a holy experience, got all duh same moans & spite as dem hymns duh fields taught our folk, but we swapped the blood in ‘em wit beans & hot watuh co’nbread, added some jazz & built us up a house to hide it all in. You wudda loved it, boy.  Daniel B. Summerhill is an Assistant Professor of Poetry and Social Action at California State University Monterey Bay. He lives in Marina with his wife, Quianna and daughter, Genesis. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Obsidian, Rust + Moth, Califragile, Button, Cogs, The Hellebore, The Lilly Review and others. He holds an MFA from Solstice of Pine Manor College. bouquet
when we thought the world was ending, flowers began blooming -w.j lofton if not a revolution, a broken window-- an angiosperm in my hand, a bouquet of flowers in front of me, the shards glisten half yellow- half opaque & arresting like freeze tag, i am preserved & anxious all at once the body always knows how to signal pain, vivid colors don’t call me hero, i am no hero, i am a white blood cell standing in front of this store, smoking & amber, watching the spring bloom in defense of survival i don’t know but it’s better than not having nothing to fight for again, my homies die & they label those of us on deck “survivors,” in the longest stretch of the word as in, we entered this world dying & count our blessings each time god takes our friends instead pardon my audacity, not even small prey desire to survive  Ava Gripp is a writer from Cleveland, Ohio. She focuses on poetry and travel writing. Your Grandfather Had Secrets
Without you in the mountains another Midwest mostly East, body of water “Keep it cheap for me, Chief. Will ya?” Any bartender smiles mirroring your tight Irish grin another region missing you again I lost you in the winter considering the canyons considering your slapstick I'm riding with you to be alone A Sportster or ‘Dina riding with the Angels they look like you with their leather on The tailpipe said, “Fuck You” and your windpipe sang Moody Blue I went down to the river to feel for a moment I dipped and slashed and drowned to hear you sing your songs once more and you said, don’t go to hell for me, too Plastic septum accessory oxygen earrings catching Closing eyes dreaming of a sixth gear you say Revving, laughing, yelling booooooooom With you in the hospital driving away Only you lived for one more week You had addictions and we all do I count the trees passing in obsession One, two, blinking to see in the California pines But there is no rest there is no miracle Fish in the water that I cast my net to maybe catch you but The Bells have Tolled or told me that you are gone So go on ahead before me Singing another memory Telling another story Please One more story  stevie redwood is a disabled sino-jewish neuroemergent introvert genderpervert homotrash littledreamer bigmouth freak living & dying on Yelamu Ohlone land / San Francisco, CA. they like shittalk, porchsitting, leaflitter, & riffraff. find them trolling yimbys on twitter @trash_whisperer abolish the dead
living binary :: i’m supposed to be :: grateful to habit :: a body it means :: i think :: i am :: alive :: like everything else :: a live :: continu :: um :: how much :: living in order :: to cheat being :: dead :: how ordered :: until the binary :: body how dead :: before the body :: unliving how bodied :: until becoming :: you think :: how living :: until you :: unbody your body :: how grateful :: you body :: how body become :: how are you :: undead :: you how :: you living :: how disordered :: before unbecoming :: a binary :: how disordered until i un :: bi :: nary the body :: & how are your dead :: & are you alive :: & i am :: here still :: becoming :: disordered :: abolish the body :: a body i am :: still dying :: still living :: become :: be :: come :: abolish the dying :: a body :: come :: be :: & body the dead :: unliving :: the binaries i am :: supposed to :: be alive if i bother :: a body :: i think :: it means i am :: grateful :: i am :: the living :: the dying :: am i :: alive am i :: still :: here i am :: disorder :: still dead :: be here :: what is unbodied :: am i :: what is :: what is what :: is :: what :: is the body :: what is :: what is what :: is :: what :: is the body :: & what is :: the body :: what is :: what is what :: is :: what :: is the body :: & what is :: the body :: becoming  Ariel Clark-Semyck (she/her) is a poet from Chicago. She is currently an MFA candidate at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Her poems have been published by Heavy Feather Review, Grimoire Magazine, Witch Craft Magazine, Yes Poetry, Occulum, and elsewhere. productivity log
isolation has been challenging but rewarding. during this time, i have taken the opportunity to assess & restructure my past methods of suffering, all while developing new methods that might prove their usefulness in the months ahead. i leak menstrual blood across the bathroom floor & let it harden. i double over in pain, slide along the walls, ricochet from doorway to doorway, shout oof! oof! oof! alarm the cat. i role-play waterlogged ophelia & take a bubble bath face-down in my finest nightgown. i shake my hand with my other hand. i fast-forward through brokeback mountain to get to the kissing scenes, a giddy tear tumbling down my cheek. i shine a flashlight all over my body & spend hours on web md. i stare at the deer in the backyard, touch my fingers gently to my heart as if to ask who me? i practice drifting out of consciousness with my hand resting on my forehead, palm up, like all the old paintings by the greats. i practice dreaming of you. i practice dreaming of you dreaming of me stranded in the desert with the tumbleweeds going in the background. i practice dreaming of you dreaming of me waving a handkerchief & calling out to you yoohoo! in your dream, we are gliding across the green screen of a spaghetti western on a beautiful dappled stallion, my arms around your waist, my pigtails whipping in the wind, your ten-gallon hat flying off to reveal a full head of hair. i practice waking up in a cold sweat. admittedly, there’s been a learning curve. sometimes my suffering can get sloppy. sometimes i speed ahead of myself & i don’t even mean to. sometimes that sky swaps its purple for pink for blue for gray for blue for gray for blue for pink for purple again & i move so slow i can barely stand it. tasteful nude all yolks run together in this afternoon sun. the sky yawns as fur spikes up from the earth. a daffodil opens like the palm of a hand, yielding its sex to ask apocalypse now or apocalypse not with each petal pulled. white blood cells furrow my fox-brow as i watch the space cadets fake-kiss & drink coffee in their brightly colored lofts. gray matter floods my pelvic floor & grows whiskers. if i bounce my thigh against my thigh just so, someone’s square jaw will appear to argue with my alone-time. i vortex into the pea hiding between the mattresses. i spew royal jelly & get glued to the springs. i told you not to leave me out so long— any longer & you could cut through me like butter.  benedict nguyễn is a dancer, writer, and curator based on unceded Lenape and Wappinger lands (South Bronx, NY). Their writing has appeared in AAWW’s the Margins, Brooklyn Rail, Diacritics, and Pank, among others. In 2019, they created the multidisciplinary performance platform “soft bodies in hard places.” They publish a monthly-ish newsletter “first quarter moon slush” on substack and are sometimes online @xbennyboo. bezel bleed
after Jessica Alba, Awkwafina, The Bold Type, Ariana Grande, Vanessa Hudgens, Daniel Dae Kim, Gwyneth Paltrow, & Jia Tolentino @me_on_main It is up to me to represent myself I see me and I deserve to see me I want to help me solve I want to be an additive to life When I post I’m giving voice to highlight #representation starts both in front and behind the camera Paint over this screen with lit up pixels of your heart Bleed your aorta dry so story exists people feel less alone so people stay #woke Its hard to make a living That’s harsh reality of participating in these systems gain a little more freedom Use freedom to reject things you no longer need But keep writing write what you know #ownvoices An equal world is enabled coming together we can A journey to 100 likes too 1000 dollars begins with a single post a single # this is #art #resistance #ad @me_on_main commented: so my comments are being taken out of context It’s a crazy time this is NOT plagiarism this is a collage not a cop out this is my art this is my labor this is curation this is me thank me it is incredibly dangerous and selfish to take this situation that lightly people are going to die which is terrible but like inevitable stay inside @me_alt When u bleed over my screen with the lit up pixels of ur wet heart paint ur aorta so ur story exists don’t forget ur telling them what hurts u what moves u they already know ur blood type now they know ur behavioral type so take this message and whisper it in my ear sign it on someone’s palms write it down and pass it on find ur friends online if u rly must then log off forever unless new friends need to find u online too then log back on grow the movement between new accounts deleted accts darting beneath the algorithm that’s probably still smart enough to catch u doesn’t care u hate surveillance what else u do about it huh right something they already approved or tell someone how much u care and they scroll past anyway another representation rubs their attn as if they’re choosing anything tell them again nom nom norm Gorged on calories when hungry for the nutrition of ur sweaty skin ate so much i ruined my intestine’s inner cells with the ravages of modernity’s complex division of carbs, chew chew to stay sane mmm doesn’t even taste sweet so norm’ed i am to smol sucrose poured over factory dough i come to think it should all come like that coated in extra spackles tickle my palate flaky tension torn the psychodrama of my at home cooking show featuring eating have i ever watched myself watch someone watching themself pull their eyelid back to etch daggers on their lids wonder if they knew they were making soft pore porn conjuring the jagged wings of an angel if pressed for cash do i pay the worker or buy the eyeliner swoop past that pit of guilt keep spectating the stretch and pull of skinning pulling wrinkles tight and taut brush pat beat rub and most importantly blend into the surface, blur til its totalizing illusion cuts me open i too could be that a turn on the webcam, just a bite of dough, a dextrose brush across my chin, swallow what agony is there swipe swipe dab dab then bake til i glow full from within just powder mist to finish off my mask waiting for |
