Try to Remember


Will hys body learn that

“Hys body
Is a weapon.”

“Hys body
Is a weapon.”

“Hys body
Is a weapon.”

[and no
Gun Safety Course

Will hys body learn that
Hys fellow male
Cheer and damn
One another

“Hys weapon
Pops off!”

“Hys weapon
Pops off!”

“Hys weapon
Pops off!”



Looking back on tragedy

Were you younger

When they took you?

Looking back now

Through the honest portal,

Do you feel

Like you were taken

Before your time?

Or, does time now

Feel like fabric,

More amorphous and flowing

Than a body

Forced into a line?


Time for Bed

This week featuring Kate Cuellar!



by Kate Cuellar


After lengthy months of internal review, Management has handed down a short document, detailing its position on issues relating to the bed. Management acknowledges past failures in this area but feels that the formalization of policy will benefit all parties–Management included–moving forward.

The bed is the single most vulnerable place in the home of a human person. The bed is eminently respectable and defenseless. It is ancient and quiveringly exposed.

The bed is a designated piece of furniture in the private room of the human person. It is most often where she sleeps. Sometimes however, in travel or disaster, she must carry her bed around inside her. The absence of the physical bed makes no change as to its essential character. It is only that sometimes, she must be the bed. And, that is to say, without her, the bed is quite empty.

The bed is where she goes to rehearse for Death.
The bed is where she thinks and plans and hates herself for that stupid thing she said when she was twelve.
The bed is where she lies awake in fear and in happiness.
The bed is where she prays for love and, sometimes still, for protection from love.
The bed is, she finds, the best place to speak to the dead.
The bed is where the unfortunate human person succumbs to the biological need for sleep even at the risk of being devoured by predators, set upon by brigands, or missing out on something really interesting.

As it is a necessary haven of emotional and physical security, the bed is an almost hysterically dangerous place in the life of a modern human person.

It is therefore necessary for Management to codify a number of best-practice policies into official

which every guest is subject to.

Guests include all friends, lovers, and passing travellers; all are welcome only on invitation.

-The bed is for loving in.
-The bed is for sleeping in.
-The bed is a place for kindness, always.
-The bed is a place for enthusiastic consent, only.
-The bed is a place where the pragmatism and sense of the standing world may be joyfully abandoned. You must dream in the bed.
-And you must never, yes never, tell a lie.
-The bed is not a place to hold an argument. If you must argue, you must get up.
-Confidences made in the bed are sacred.
-All bedtime stories, lullabies, chants, and sundry magic spells of protection are at the discretion of the giver and must be accepted.
-Management will adhere to these laws. The bed is not a garden for growing tyrants.
-In case of predators or brigands, always wish goodnight sweetly.
-And be kind and sincere when speaking the first words of the new day.

Thank you for your attention.




You, a Eulogy

by Alexander Gudding

It has taken me an ocean;
to now decide to write to you
with the curtains lit from outside,
and send my body back through to

that wealth replete and golden hue,
the marks worn in and scrapes retained.
The blush it brings, a tensing jaw,
the things you thought you’d live to lose.

Memory doesn’t sever itself.
So I’d begin to spell in snow,
these are things you could have done right,
and these are ways you should have grown.

But those things drip deep, faced with light;
the lake, it’s surface now leaps round
and might of water in its weight,
squeezes out all I thought I’d known.

For months my lungs, amphibian,
with anger, learned to breathe again.
Forcing liquid into hot air;
or engines left on in the heat.

This was a wrestling incarnate,
I came to find, without a cause.
A flight through timeless fear and force
enough to loosen want, and worse,

obey a loneliness that lives,
in every part of every day,
and can commit itself to you,
though I pass it still on my way.

I might laugh and somehow find you,
as though a book in some old drawer.
Eventually pages yellow,
and mine are now invisible.

To pretend the rock still quivers,
I cannot say I feel the same.
The alley brings a certain night
that no one feels along the way,

places once fraught with many lines,
tread over and over again;
now glisten and bleed their true sight.
We touched these stones more than we know.

Follow my voice, I hear them say,
remember your fear, once laid here.
But with the passing cloud I know,
the past will yet remain alone.

Tossing through that smoke long ago
with an old an’ bent cigarette,
we inhale out back in the cold.
Our bodies a shiver, out late.

Can we tell yet, no clarity
will grace this time of living night.
Stars are meant for long ago, but;
a hand can stretch, and keep the time.

There’s no set path for such a loss,
and no one seems to yell or rail,
though closure can be such a thrill;
no such luxury as a line.

Initially, they’re a stranger
initially, it’s just the spark.
Eventually, a new static
eventually, a harmony.

out ice

Find, uh, home

This week we look at the theme of Sanctuary. Featuring the work of Jacob Horstmeier.



by Jacob Horstmeier

I was lost in halls of a statehouse, tiled
walls adorned with ancient imaginations
telling of a ritual weighing of the
soul on a scale of

costs and gains. Economies: nature at her
worst. His soul too cumbersome, lacking profit.
Death he’s fed to. Capitol clergy talk of
putting the masses

back to work, I’m passing a cloister, thrumming.
Through the open colonnade, workers sit at
loud machines, a trance of a sort controls their
bodies, speaking:

O, God of Production,
You bless us with this entrance
beneath your fluorescent glow.
Your gear oil our life blood,
Your workhouse our sanctuary.
May our energies be spent
as you see fit, for we know not
what to do with these idle hands.
May our time, temporal, cross
the threshold into your eternal,
ever churning, ever producing body.
For sleep is the cousin of death,
and may we rather die
than be under utilized.
Fill us with obedience,
for we know well the wish
of the shift manager issues
directly from Your divine wisdom.
May we never stray from
the bottom line.
May we always shun
our spoiled minds,
For only through You,
O, God of Production,
shall we find salvation
in these troubled times.

Post this prayer…whispers I’m hearing…perching
bird sees hope from visible darkness. Silence
making music out of this blindness, lightness
springs from within me.




Sanctuary Levitate

by Alexander Gudding

(does home come carried in a side pocket) (does a train yell in your ear long after it’s left)

(a sanctuary in the back of every jacket) (and potentially the humming of a laden heart)


handing the talisman over / to pour milk and drape flowers about the deity

“this will bring rain”

(Emma heaving from the act) (whole sometimes) (others, bit in half)

(when hunger outweighs hate) (arms out and a neck clean) (a body clean)

(a duty to keep cleansed on the steps of this house, this is a house)

will this sanctuary one day be compared to nature / a bird

“or something that soared”







Bounce this Ghost



hung the pictures tonight
after a restful drink
and a dustful eight months

one a postcard from a western friend
one a design from other hands
one a piece of paper w/ words

each either an old lament
each either an old friend
each anew piece of who we’ve become

couldn’t consider it a talent
to finally break out the level
and do some math in here

get the angle
pay it mind
and straighten out this rented wall

load a small cache into this small box
press a thumb to the ceiling
and let it peel as it needs

no one is home
no one is leaving
no one leaves a light on anymore

there’s no need to avoid
the darkness down the hall
or the window’s wide stare

a trinity lengthens my chest
and air rushes in
and in and in and in

room 3




There are ghosts in here
What you hold in your hands
Or read on the screen
Invites them in



Ctrl . Alt . Dleet.

This week we take a look at the theme of Control.

Featuring the work of Rachael Everson.




how I ex(o)(e)rcise control in the absence of fear

by Rachael Everson

  1. howling moon swan song/death rattle first light
  2. thorn covered heartbeat/long stemmed sighs
  3. willing back bends/breakwater cannon ball
  4. back molar beer bottle/bitten finger nail I love you
  5. can’t wait walk sign/slow motion shoelace fall
  6. bird chirp chattering/ranting to walls
  7. choking on shared oxygen/bury my breath pillow deep
  8. your slack jawed smile/framed canines
  9. bountiful harvest in my ribcage/dead flower petals in my cereal bowl
  10.                                                                                                                    silence





don’t need it?

by Alexander Gudding

a destiny or a haven
cut your hair
they’ll never
that you did
it for
a remedy or persuastion
the trick to
help define
your soul
a day to
warm and drip,
melt snow





lurning the curve


And suddenly my words stood gummed-shut up.
Honey in a vacuum.

A better suit to wear would have been nice,
Instead of a balloon.

Is health a private vision to be claimed;
A tightening of the load.

To float above with weathered parasol,
And search for smoother stones.


The body taught itself to swim,
and climb back in the sea again;

how does a body learn instead,
to thrust arms against and begin.

There is oxygen enormous,
enough to burst the lungs in bed;

but lungs can leave you breathless friend,
and take the leading from the led.


lay your length down,
alongside mine.
heat from the underarm.
smell of an exposed neck.

create a line;
lend it breath, so
our aching knees unlock
and reinforce the spine.

then give it time.




KN33L two R3V3AL

This week we focus on the theme of Revelations featuring the work of Neal Javenkoski.



The Spy

By Neal Javenkoski

12 years old and infidel,
I had never read the Book of Revelations.

But it sure sounded like a nice idea.

I imagined it the size of my hand,
thin, but full to bursting
with the discoveries that Man had made thus far,
bound up in leather.

To read it would be to join the chorus of our species
in the great, colossal “Oh!”
that had been carried for centuries across myriad voices
in a rambling counterpoint.

I began to wonder at why it had been kept from me.
I grew suspicious of others’ mysterious expertise.
My eyes stayed peeled in the hall between classes,
certain I would one day catch a peer
darting into a disused classroom
for a quick, solicitous conference with greater wisdom.

“Ah ha!”, I’d cry
and the jig would be up,
the book juggled unceremoniously to the floor.

A meeting would be held.

And I would at last be inducted into the full privilege of my origin,
the one I’d longed for
all those clandestine midnights,
asking innumerable answers of the unhearing stars.


house out.jpg



New Revealing Equity

by Alexander Gudding

“Oh ho” you’re in a bathroom right now | won thgir moorhtab how a ni er’uoy “oh ho”
You spoil of war | raw fo long liops uoy
Wading out into a new lending group | puorg gnidnel wen will a otni tou gnidaw


Beating out your fool | loof ruoy you tuo gniteab
What news | swen stare tahw
From the pile of coats | stoac fo elip at eht morf

Was it the low temperature | erutarepmet wol the eht ti saw
That brought your blood type | epyt doolb sun ruoy thguorb taht
To nearly zero | orez on ylraen ot

Were your arms descended from you | uoy morf the dednecsed smra ruoy erew
Offering out their hands | sdnah rieht other tou gnireffo
And shaking each other in turn | nrut ni rehto side hcae gnikahs dna


Don’t remember leaving | gniveal of rebmemer t’nod
Or sitting in that chair | riahc that the ni gnittis ro
Over there | ereht street revo

Don’t remember a slinking | gniknils a how rebmemer t’nod
And deadly remedy | ydemer long yldaed dna
Pouring out golden brown | nworb will nedlog tuo

So, not so much substance | ecnatsbus hcum you os ton ,os
As deaf resilience | ecneiliser stare faed sa
To changing terrain | niarret at gnignahc ot


There is a crushed | dehsurc the a si ereht
Cherry that | that sun yrrehc
Trickles from your hand | dnah ruoy on morf selkcirt

Sometimes upheaval leaves | sevael the lavaehpu semitemos
itself in knee-deep | peed-eenk other ni flesti
With water wings | sgniw side retaw htiw

But does provide a better | retteb of a edivorp seod tub
Set of legs | sgel the fo tes
For the eventual reveal | laever street lautneve eht rof


wheat 2.jpg