KIOSK 65 - EPHEMERA

OPENING SPREAD

K. 65

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[3]

“EPHEMERA” Prompt

KIOSK MAGAZINE.THE 65TH EDITION

[4]

K. 65

PROMPT

As a species inclined to leave our mark on the world, so much of our being fades into obsolescence.

Things once important are forgotten, [5] get lost,

become something new.

Embrace brevity.

Show us what it means to become obsolete.

Bring us what does not last, what you leave behind, what should be forgotten. Bring us your EPHEMERA.

CHAPTER 1

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INK “EPHEMERA” Chapters GILBERT M38-1179 MESS UNTITLED CHAPTER 2

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PLUS CYLINDER SERIES IMG 0312 SOLACE OF SILENCE I TRIED TO WRITE AMERICAN EXPRESS WAS THE BRASS TARNISHED? OR WAS IT LIKE-NEW? [6] TEXT AUSTIN SIDE 2 STEREO CHAPTER 3

K.65.03

WHAT TO LEAVE BEHIND JIFFY CORN MUFFIN MIX YOUR TICKET NUMBER: IS A2 ENTROPY TEXACO BEDSIDE TABLE, ITEMIZED BLU DOT NEVER TITLED #7 CHAPTER 4

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FLOATING EULOGY FOR ANCIENT CITIES

SCREENSHOT 2021-10-14 AT K. 65 10.48.34 PM SCREENSHOT 2021-10 -30 AT 1.11.34 PM THE LAST VOYAGE PRINTED MATTER MEMBERSHIP UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG NOT TO BE REMOVED EXCEPT BY THE CONSUMER

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 5

K.65.05

GALLERY 230 WHAT’S LOST//WHAT’S LET GO 1. PEEL THIS TAB OFF THIS IS AN ADVERTISEMENT [ 7 ] BY ME FOR THE POST OFFICE COTTON CANDY GRAPES IMG_5777 ; 5768 EXCERPT INTEREST COMPUTATION K.65.06

SOME NOTES FROM LIFE SO FAR: OR, AN INQUEST INTO THE NOTES APP POLAROID ENVELOPE LINER DEAR UNIVERSE HERE’S HOW TO USE YOUR ANYTIME BANK

COMPUTER KEYS TO “EPHEMERA” Chapters THE GIRL WHO TOOK ME TO THE LOOKOUT TOWER TONIGHT K.65.07

DIGESTION RED GENERAL ADMISSION GRAND CONCERT SNOWY SOLITUDE MONOTYPE K.65.08

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES LAST LIGHT THE HARMONY OF WE [8]

K.65.

CLOSING SPREADS

CONTRIBUTORS LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

CONTENTS

K. 65

[9]

[ 10 ]

[ 11 ]

“Ink”

I CANNOT OUTRUN TIME

[ 12 ]

L Miller

K. 65

I hold this moment in my palm. Cradle it.

Cling to it.

I think, I will die.

I cannot outrun time That which cannot cease to be

K.65 344803021

The timely preservation in the flourish of a hasty scratches

SEND INQUIRIES TO:

.01

TEXACO INC.

hand [ 13 ] wet ink

Decades in the beams of light a written portrait they call

“The Dance of Dust”

Previous Balance: 36.55

Years in the sanguine shadows of a rose petal

Pd. 3/9/79

Past Due Balance Range:

Months in its light

TO $ OVER $ 000

A day in the iridescence of its dew A moment in the leaf’s serrated edge

Periodic (Monthly) Rate: 1.00% Annual Percentage Rate: 12.00% EPHEMERA

“Ink”

Feverish hand.

Endless pages.

The voice inside.

It screams – Preserve the moment.

Ink is the enemy of the clock

[ 14 ]

It holds the moment in its palm. Cradles it.

¶

L Miller

K. 65

[ 15 ]

¶

Clings to it.

Until the last reader Ceases to be

“GILBERT”

[ 16 ]

“M38-1179”

K. 65

[ 17 ]

“mess”

THE PERCUSSIVE BRILLIANCE

[ 18 ]

Ashley Aranda

K. 65

I wanted to write For you to hear the beginning Excuse me the percussive brilliance of the first three minutes of The Beautiful Ones by Prince

[ 19 ]

or any rhythm really every time I open my mouth and the show house lights flare.

Platonic plutonic it’s all the same to me really,

“mess”

as long as my voice doesn’t lose the sway of ocean, and [ 20 ]

Arcs of

lotus flower fingers unfurl.

my body settle like rich silt

Ashley Aranda

K. 65

Supporting whole ecosystems. I want you to fall in love with me, SUPPORTING WHOLE ECOSYSTEMS. I

owe me a letter for every sentence in piles around room.

[ 21 ]

Is it okay if I write about what we all deserve?

Leave the songs on saying all the same things through every season.

the

[ 22 ]

[ 23 ]

“Untitled”

[ 24 ]

Elyssa Bezner

K. 65

WE LIVED IN ITS WAKE BEFORE IT EVEN ARRIVED

as the world ends

atoms from thousands of Eves martyrs, head to unhonored deaths, countless— with them, atoms of plastic, atoms of lost feelings, atoms of scrapped fabric and shoelaces and waste and methane.

heat death occurs on a tuesday morning, we saw it coming. we lived in its wake before it even arrived. [ 25 ]

flashes of burning light and fire soaks us in a terrible homage to our useless living, mocking us while we still hope

love, interspersed even here

“Untitled”

Reminds us we bore that existence for its sake whenthesunexplodes I hope, im with you

[ 26 ] when the landfills come up to our necks and we’re choking down trash i hope I can see your eyes over the flood

it’sallihave itsallihave in the apple, I saw the world burning in the apple I saw I wasn’t Eve they told me to hold the sin close Rotten, in a thousand hands.

Elyssa Bezner

K. 65

do we have to decide, before Tuesday? before then, what do you think we could create? what could we lose?

everything, nothing

nothing else will stay with me, not even myself in nonexistence, we won’t know each other; see each other; know we are forgotten.

[ 27 ]

but, until then flashes, we are here in them we are here

“Plus Cylinder Series”

[ 28 ]

“IMG 0312”

K. 65

K.65 GILBERT

.02

CLEARFOLD

[ 29 ]

white medium

ideal for envelopes this is an A7

DICK TRACY M38-1179 REFERENCE ONLY NOT FOR PUBLICATION EPHEMERA

“Solace of Silence”

THE AWARENESS OF MY SURROUNDINGS PRECEDES MY AWARENESS OF HUMAN LIFE

[ 30 ]

MG Higginbotham

K. 65

The oak bench is spotted with rain drops so we drape our raincoats over it and sit.

I do not touch, look at, or acknowledge you; and you do the same. [ 31 ] sun Our eyes and the are on the ocean.

The awareness of my surroundings precedes my awareness of human life. I forget your presence and disappear into the paleness of the rainworn sky.

“Solace of Silence”

Your warm cheek rests against my shoulder, not blushing, but happy, so I fall back to you, come back to life.

I FALL BACK TO YOU, COME BACK TO LIFE

When I look down to my side, eyes glazed with wonderment and [ 32 ] light, I see an apparation sitting beside--

MG Higginbotham

K. 65

You look like Nature, like all things green, like a part of the greater scheme. My affection toward you is intangible, and [ 33 ] every word that falls short sits unsaid on my tongue.

Your smile reminds me I have my own,

“Solace of Silence”

so I mirror you.

[ 34 ]

YOUR SMILE REMINDS ME I HAVE MY OWN, SO I MIRROR IT

MG Higginbotham

K. 65

[ 35 ]

Then the clouds cover the sun and all the wonder settles into my stomach.

“I tried to write”

[ 36 ]

Ashley Aranda

K. 65

the sexiest poem I’ve touched but not fucked in the middle of nowhere under a cool autumn alley light. We smoke and dance around it, ultimately you bow out and I break even. I tell The Moon I love him, her, I’m a lover, but I don’t journal, so writers like you use my name like salt. the queerest poem yet on my behalf, which is saying a lot, from all the way over here, I wanted to bend the rainbow into my image and for you to see directly through me. Floating prismatic possibilities bounce [ 37 ] through the room and my thighs ache in color. the sultriest poem about being drunk on a softly lit blue bus barreling late into downtown London, avoiding you in Soho since you study neuroscience, do fucking improv and bought an apple so we could we use a random bathroom in some Oxford cafe and I don’t gamble because I’m an addict.

You see me alone in the lobby and tell me to go to bed and I ask you if there’s another bathroom but you don’t get it! so I go to sleep, tragique sexy spy babe Sometime later, you text me happy birthday smiley face and you know what, you almost caught me slipping but that’s none of your business.

“I tried to write”

the lush poem for the love of my life so far and the way every hotel bed is new, overwashed sheets or glass windows same difference, every city a new planet, a perfect portal my body worth equal weight cocoa butter coverage, glowing good and moody and my ideas sung back to me, Ashley Melody, encasing all you desire too in the same breath.

[ 38 ] The flick of my lighter with you reflecting the fat parallel sun eating this highway that bugs still fly over knowing better. the worst poem I’ve ridden, is the fantasy of my own making. I am Venus incarnate bitch, I don’t know what you were expecting, birthed of my mother’s cum and breath, embroidered with boy energy, blessed first daughter, father’s femme prince, ethereal baddie, sad hottie, no-bad-times baby girl.

This one ends at dawn.

EVERY CITY A NEW PLANET, A PERFECT PORTAL

Ashley Aranda K. 65

[ 39 ]

“American Express”

[ 40 ]

K. 65

[ 41 ]

“Was the Brass Tarnished? Or Was it Like-New?”

TO TRAVEL THROUGH THE OCEAN

[ 42 ]

Brad Mathewson

K. 65

When the news broke that brass replaced all the seas, you packed your little rucksack and marched past the beach. With the Atlantic a jungle gym of pipes interlocking for miles and miles, with no [ 43 ] unyielding waves to think of, it just takes a crawl under a bar and a few swings between beams to travel through the ocean. I wonder if you could still taste the seawater and smell the fish-skin while you set up your tent in the lowest basin.

As you lit your campfire

“Was the Brass Tarnished? Or Was it Like-New?”

and laid down to rest, what did you think of the sounds? Did the clanging of metal and the [ 44 ] voices of other pioneers keep you awake? Or did you sleep through the night for the first time in ages?

WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THE SOUNDS?

Brad Mathewson K. 65

[ 45 ]

“TEXT AUSTIN”

[ 46 ]

“Side 2 Stereo”

K. 65

[ 47 ]

[ 48 ]

[ 49 ]

“What to Leave Behind”

[ 50 ]

Darian Martin

K. 65

In the Paleolithic years they would paint lions & deer on the walls of caves

.03

ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS HOW MY SHADOW FLICKERS

K.65

hold clay models of animals against the light For the following states ca of & fill in the ...fire (800) 327 1000 silhouette [ 51 ] New York CIty...(212) 677-42

Elsewhere in N.Y. State.....

They’d stain clean lines (800) 522-6443 over traces of the past Phoenix..........248-0505 with charcoal or flint Elsewhere in Arizona....(800 when I think back to 352-3000 the past Florida.........(800) 432-21 all can I think about is Hawaii................941-77 how my shadow flickers

Alaska in & out(Call & howCollect).......

I could (212) leave 677-4220 never evidence as concrete like that behind EPHEMERA

“What to Leave Behind”

The delicate shell of an ear, a single strand of hair, the sharp blade of a shoulder none of it

If asked what imprint I left behind in this life I want the clear memory of afternoons spent at [ 52 ] the plant nursery to fill the mind picking out flora to bring home & not knowing their names, but loving the fronds, the viridian & dreaming about my space evolving into a greenhouse

Darian Martin

K. 65

[ 53 ]

I want to leave behind the first warm breeze just before winter melts into spring the fuzzy feeling that lingers after a hug

“What to Leave Behind”

[ 54 ]

The rapid beat of a heart when telling someone “i love you” for the first time

NOT QUITE TANGIBLE, NOT QUITE CONTRIVED, BUT SOMETHING IRIDESCENT

Darian Martin

K. 65

the infinite possibility of freedom like a baby bird about to take flight

[ 55 ]

I want to leave behind fading glimmers like dinners in candlelight

I want to leave behind something not quite tangible, not quite contrived, but something iridescent

“JIFFY corn muffin mix”

[ 56 ]

“Your ticket number is: A2”

K. 65

[ 57 ]

“entropy”

BUT IT WILL EVENTUALLY DECAY

[ 58 ]

Isaac Morris

K. 65

the black hole that quietly roars at the center of the milky way the singularity concealed inside forces of gravity immense in nature they are beyond standard nomenclature anything can enter, nothing can exit but it will eventually decay evaporating packets of quanta away over eons and eons of time incomprehensible to our minds

a redwood tree, that has endured decades of drought, [ 59 ] winds, and firestorms expanding its fibrous bark over decades, centuries even will eventually sigh one last time as it falls back to the earth it once sprouted from it too, will eventually decay broken down by fuzzy fungi into strings of peptides and cellulose a sand castle, surrounded by an impervious moat. its impenetrable walls of quartz and calcite, millions of years its senior. it too, will eventually decay when it meets the wave that reaps its rigid structure stealing the silt away

“entropy”

[ 60 ]

THE WHOLE IS HER, AND IS THE SOUL OF THE WORLD

once a young child, a fire of passion and hope burning within small eyes now, an adult teeming with experiences a cornucopia of fortune and misfortune, a patchwork mosaic of personality you too, will decay away after exhaling somber final breath as the spark of consciousness fizzles and the soul escapes the bones the atoms return to Her, the Whole

Isaac Morris

K. 65

[ 61 ] The Whole is Her, and she is the soul of the world the collective mother of life animate and inanimate stars and suns the latter you and I the former She is the universe and entropy is her curse

“Texaco”

[ 62 ]

K. 65

[ 63 ]

“Bedside Table, Itemized”

¶

[ 64 ]

Grace Cooper

¶

K. 65

1x Desk lamp 7x Bobby pins

1X WATER BOTTLE 6X VINYL STICKERS

2x Butterfly hair clips 1x Puzzle Lover’s Sudoku book 1x Souvenir mug from Nashville, TN [ 65 ]

17x Pens and pencils, assorted 1x Bert’s Bees Original Lip Balm 1x Paisley patterned glasses cleaning cloth 1x Water bottle 6x Vinyl stickers 2x Pretty rocks from Gooseberry, MN

“Bedside Table, Itemized”

1x “Friendship” bracelet made of lime green and orange pipe cleaner 1x Torn concert venue wristband 1x Torn tag from Target sports bra 6x

[ 66 ]

Pieces of paper trash, unidentifiable

1x Opal ring 1x Bottle Hyoscyamine, 0.125mg 32x Pills remaining 1x Bottle Vyvanse, 40mg 18x Pills remaining 2x Bottles Trazadone, 50mg 42x Pills remaining 90x Pills remaining

Grace Cooper

K. 65

4x Polaroid photos 1x Bluetooth speaker

6X PIECES OF PAPER TRASH, UNIDENTIFIABLE

1x Needle and thread

[ 67 ]

“BLU DOT”

[ 68 ]

K. 65

[ 69 ]

“never titled #7”

I ALREADY LET MY THOUGHTS DRIFT UNTIL THEY’RE DOTS ON THE HORIZON UNFULFILLED

[ 70 ]

Janie Rainer

K. 65

sometimes I need a canyon to feel like I’m really there and there’s something living underneath my skin put a light on it and it’s crimson red just like anyone’s and still I think I’m something else

the water makes me feel so tight on my body it’s poking through and I let the words fall out of my ears there’s no room for you up here I already let my thoughts [ 71 ] drift until they’re dots on the horizon unfulfilled

it’s madness how I

it’s not something I’m proud of it’s something I am

[ 72 ]

K.65 37:12

68:52 -> 106.04

[ 73 ]

.04

67:27

79:01->146:28->252.32 59:05 58:42->117.57 45:06 47:15->92.21->210.08 ->462.40+49.02 ->511.42 49:02 8.5 hours before episode 10!!| EPHEMERA

“Floating”

IS THIS WHAT I’LL BE LIKE WHEN I’M GONE

[ 74 ]

Tim Do

K. 65

When I was 12, I watched my fish die Its waterboarded body linger at the bottom of the tank fin grazed the neon gravel as bubbles rose from the inside.

I sat there watching him [ 75 ] eyes and his shallow Is this what I’ll be when I’m gone?

I pulled him out of the tank, dipping my hands into his world, thick as a womb his cold body was heavy as was his stillness.

No longer did he shake and writhe in his tank and I wondered if he enjoyed his life or if he thought well of me

“Floating”

or if he loved anyone other than I? I lay him on my table and took the craft scissor from my drawer his flesh was blackened and oozed smells Smells of longing and sorrow, [ 76 ] Smells that you can only smell when the things you love are truly gone. I cut and cut deeper and deeper until the body laying in front of me was disfigured A gob of tender darkened flesh left behind. and as if immediately tears welled from my eyes I placed the scissor to the side and held the shredded carcass in my

I HELD HIM CLOSE AS IF HE WERE A MEMORY

Tim Do

K. 65

hands and began to sob Maybe out of grief or guilt or fear or maybe it was nothing, nothing at all I held him close as if he were a memory.

[ 77 ]

Farewell, dear friend.

“eulogy for ancient cities and humankind”

YOU WILL RETURN FROM WHICH YOU CAME: A SYMMETRY

[ 78 ]

Samiya Rasheed

K. 65

Start on the path to Babylon, the desert city. Paved in Koine Greek wrought in time gone­ — she stood in sandstone sands like dried flesh flaked: mother earth’s own. The same dust we will leave, tracing cracked soil off the skin crumbling empires each our own I draw it from you— sick sweet saccharine swan songs gnawing at your peeling heels, splinters from a bedrock that remembers that cold stone truth stained into the clay of our hue we will return, I ask of you For the problem is [ 79 ] Babylon resounds in our minds— hammer on ivory bone a skull: a bell to call those thousand miles to a valley we cannot place. the Sound is holy and old, but wonder the things lost in translation.

You will return from which you came: a symmetry, from your first blood-soaked wails, face pinched, to the silence in silt spilled over, buried back in the soil hide of our first Mother unfettered not ascending we are twins to a city Biblical and spent time forgets all but your silhouette— the hanging gardens you did not have. There is a honeyed ringing when I relive you— effaced by lye and repeated machine wash In absentia, we will accept consequence of crying out and disappearing It has been heavy millennia

“Screenshot 2021-10-14 at 10.48.34 PM”

[ 80 ]

“Screenshot 2021-10-30 at 1.11.34 PM”

K. 65

[ 81 ]

“The Last Voyage”

[ 82 ]

ALL THE WORDS I’VE EVER WANTED TO SAY HAVE ALREADY BEEN SAID

Darian Martin

K. 65

I think, it’s sad that all the words I’ve ever wanted to say have already been said yet there is a deep yearning gasp in my chest that still wakes up breathless & somewhere in outer space the satellites [ 83 ] the are spinning in ever-expanding empty black & the shuttles carrying the whole of humanity are spiralling further & further away.

I know the Voyagers I & II are hurtling on the distant edges of the galaxy, bound for infinity among the stars & they contain photographs &

“The Last Voyage”

recordings of humanity in 60 different tongues.

We’re supposed to feel anchored at the thought of our history being immortalized, but I can’t help but feeling as though more than just gravity has slipped away. [ 84 ]

I think, I don’t care we will never live to see the whale songs and morse code of humankind, the last remnants of lost signals strewn out across the universe like stardust. All I care about is the empty space between us & I want to be brave & close the distance, but the words fall through,

HOW LITTLE WE KNOW

Darian Martin

K. 65

tiny ephemeral,hopeless things; but touching you would ruin it, you said once. At the time I didn’t know what you were talking about, but now I know what you meant. We ruined it. [ 85 ]

But who cares what the Voyagers I & II are doing hundreds of lightyears from now, we are here & that is all that matters.

The stars look down upon us & see us as naive children longing for just five more minutes to ride our bikes in the cul-desac. How little we know, they think to themselves.

“The Last Voyage”

[ 86 ]

They shine brighter when they see how deeply we love, but they flicker because they also see how much we can destroy.

There is a reason we are encapsulating the whole of humanity & catapulting it into

BECAUSE WE KNOW OUR TIME HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE

Darian Martin

K. 65

space in hopes that an alien civilization may possess the knowledge to understand it, that perhaps we could prevent them from succumbing to ruins as well. Did you know a new star is born when they see how much we [ 87 ] persevere, how vividly we dream, how deeply we feel, because every moment matters, now more than ever, because we know our time has an expiration date, because our heartbeats are finite.

“Printed Matter Membership”

[ 88 ]

“UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG NOT TO BE REMOVED EXCEPT BY THE CONSUMER”

K. 65

[ 89 ]

[ 90 ]

[ 91 ]

“Gallery 230”

ONE OF THE FINEST COLLECTIONS IN THE WEST

[ 92 ]

Paddy Qiu

K. 65

“The Chinese art collection is one of the finest collections in the West with more than 7,000 works from every phase of China’s artistic activity…A jewel of the museum is the Chinese Temple Gallery (Gallery 230), which displays a 12th-century polychrome wooden figure of Guanyin¹ of the Southern Sea, heralded as the finest sculpture of its kind outside China.”

K.65 -The Nelson-Atkins Museum

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.05

UNDER PENALTY OF LAW THIS TAG NOT TO BE [ 93 ] REMOVED EXCEPT BY THE CONSUMER -----------------------ALL NEW MATERIAL Description: CONSISTING OF 100% APOLYESTER White manFIBER speaks to a White woman compatriot…

----------------------sister. girlfriend.

REG. NO.:CA 41866(CN) wife. about the art of ---------------------“the Orient.” is made by Certification thesmells manufacturer He faintly that of the materials in it this cheese curds, as (him article are described in and the smell of curdled accordance with the law grease) wafts down EPHEMERA

“Gallery 230”

my corridors, and he mansplains how I (object in Gallery 230) am the first of my kind.

He explains, “you do not see these things outside of China.” And what a shame that is. What honor it is to be gazed [ 94 ] upon by squinted eyes. some from the canopied light. some for the ridicule of it all.

It all: being in spaces which I do not belong.

Why must I, object in Gallery 230, take space as woman, as 12th-century A.D., as the jewel crusted in the epoch of mildew, wooden chips scuttled to floor.

Paddy Qiu

K. 65

IT ALL: BEING IN SPACES WHICH I DO NOT BELONG.

Outside these walls, there is a jaded legion of collected, bodies which once served in Ming, in Qing, in times for time’s sake.

Ritual discs, which reflected the scatter of incense and flame.

[ 95 ]

Canopied beds, places for royalty to rest their adorate heads.

Ritual Wines spilled down the throats of those with the gift of chant.

“Gallery 230”

Our corpses chant, thief collected, pillaged collected, blood sp- collected, why mu[ 96 ] collected, c- cocollected. collected c co- collected.

Paddy Qiu

K. 65

collected.

SO, OUR ANSWER:

So, our answer: to be things you do not usually see outside of China.

[ 97 ]

Our answer: florescent bulbs flickering in a windowless room.

¹Buddhist goddess of Mercy

“what’s lost//what’s let go”

¶

[ 98 ]

Janie Rainer

UNTIL THE DAY I AM SEIZED BY FAMILIARITY

¶

K. 65

Keep me on the page and not on my own Let me put my words down here and not up there Up there they will drown at the hands of their own kind And I am not kind enough to offer mercy to the deserving thoughts of mine each night

Each night I sleep —I think.

These dreams I have break down realities [ 99 ] and I go crumbling At the touch of daylight or blue light or moonlight it’s trembling me it’s wasting me it’s chafing me it’s unsettling the sediment of my pedestal.

On my perch I value the fall And the dreams—or so they are called.

I feel more alive in the middle of the night Though it’s not the night it’s the plight of the plot of my mind.

What trembles me is the waking The breaking of the fourth wall Until there’s nothing left at all But a subtle imprint that my mind will never forfeit Until the day I am seized by familiarity And I think, I must be a prophet.

“1. Peel This Tab Off”

[ 100 ]

“This is an advertisement by me for the post office.”

K. 65

[ 101 ]

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

THE KIND MY MOTHER NEVER BOUGHT

[ 102 ]

Madeline Clark

K. 65

I was too young to understand what exactly my mother’s job was.

I knew she took care of people when they were sick. I understood that our neighbor’s family needed her tonight. I knew it was [ 103 ] the urgent from way my mother was hurrying to the phone. I was sure that my mother could make it better.

I had been inside of Ms. Gregory’s house many times before- she would pick me up from kindergarten in her convertible and give me a ziplock bag full of cotton candy grapes, the kind my mother never bought because they

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

cost too much. I knew Ms. Gregory’s home to be special and warm. She would let me raid her closet and try to walk in her high heels. She’d clip bows in my hair and sing with me until my mother got home from [ 104 ] work.

I felt that something was different tonight.

After my mother hung up the phone, I watched her gather things, finding the stethoscope I use on my teddy bears and the arm cuff that gets tighter the more she squeezes a tiny balloon.

I begged my mother to let me come with her. I wanted to play “Happy

Madeline Clark

K. 65

Birthday” for Ms. Gregory on her piano. I had just learned it that week from my lessons. Despite my mother’s refusal I ran after her, my bare feet slapping the concrete of the road, grabbing her hand as she reached the neighbor’s front [ 105 ] porch.

The door was opened by a woman I did not recognize. She smiled down at me, and sat me on the couch in the living room. She spoke quickly to my mother about things I could not understand as they walked away. I ran my toes through the beige carpet. It was soft. The house was dark tonight

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

Unfamiliar faces spoke in hurried whispers as they rushed by me. I sat in the living room for a while, listening to the muffled conversations taking place behind closed doors. Finally, I stood and made my way [ 106 ] towards Ms. Gregory’s bedroom, running my finger along the wall.

I hoped she would still let me try on her shoes even though my feet were dirty.

UNFAMILIAR FACES SPOKE IN HURRIED WHISPERS

Madeline Clark

K. 65

The hallway was so dark I could barely see the photos hanging crooked from their rusted nails.

I kept my aim focused on the light glowing from underneath the door of Ms. Gregory’s bedroom.

I put my ear up to the wood, listening [ 107 ] for my mother. I could hear the sound of Mr. Gregory’s voice between shuddering breaths. Suddenly, I was swept up from behind into the arms of the lady at the door. Her face was red and wet. She smelled of cigarettes and soap.

She offered me a soft smile and said “Let’s not go in there right now sweetie”. ***

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

I was too young to brace myself for what loss would feel like- or even to fully understand that Ms. Gregory wasn’t going to pick me up from kindergarten anymore, or that cotton candy grapes would never be quite as [ 108 ] sweet. I was too young to plan what I was going to say when I walked up to the microphone at her funeral, after having insisted to my father that I wanted to say a few words. I was too young to feel embarrassed when I was too shy to open my mouth, and instead only cried.

I WAS TOO YOUNG

Madeline Clark

K. 65

I was too young to understand how sad everyone was in the room, or what it might mean to them that I was wearing one of her bows, huge and floppy on the top of my head. [ 109 ]

“IMG_5777 ; 5768”

[ 110 ]

“Excerpt”

K. 65

[ 111 ]

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

I WAS OLD ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANT

However, years later, I was old enough to brace myself for loss when Mr. Gregory’s brother called my father, saying he hadn’t been able to reach him for a few days. I was old enough to understand that his trash cans hadn’t been put [ 112 ] out by the mailbox on Wednesday. I was old enough to understand what it meant when my father took a deep breath before crossing the street, and old enough to know that when my mother’s cell phone rang, it meant that Mr. Gregory wasn’t okay.

I WAS TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND HOW HORRIBLE THAT WAS

Madeline Clark

K. 65

I didn’t follow my mother this time. I watched her from between the blinds of my bedroom window. She jogged across the street, into the dark blue house, opening and closing its front door. [ 113 ]

The next time the door opened, the EMT’s were pushing a stretcher.

Later, the stretcher pushed a body, covered in a blanket, leaving a trail of sirens and red and blue light. My father told me Mr. Gregory had

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

suffered a stroke. My father found him lying in the kitchen, where he had been for three days, in a puddle of his own urine, a foot too far from the phone. I was too young to understand how horrible that was. I also failed to [ 114 ] understand why Mr. Gregory wished not to see me during his stay in the hospital.

However, I did understand that I should have payed him more frequent visits during the years before, and that I should have continued to play him simple songs on her piano.

NOW, AS TIME REFUSES TO SLOW ITS PASSING,

Madeline Clark

K. 65

I was old enough to understand that I would never see Mr. Gregory again. I was old enough to choose not to attend his funeral; old enough to understand why strangers came and auctioned off [ 115 ] all of their belongings. My father believed I was old enough to hear that Mr. Gregory covered his stoma while in the hospital so that he would suffocate to death.

“Cotton Candy Grapes”

I was old enough to attempt to comfort myself, rationalizing that now Mr. Gregory would be with Ms. Gregory again in heaven, but I wasn’t young enough to believe it.

Now, as time refuses to slow its passing, I will always be too old to remember how Ms. Gregory looked. I can’t remember how their living room was decorated, only that it smelled like cigarettes and cheap vanilla candles.

I’ll never remember what Mr. Gregory hunted- only that he did. [ 116 ]

Madeline Clark

K. 65

BUT I OFTEN WONDER WHO DID

And I’ll never know who got Ms. Gregory’s piano, not because of age but because we didn’t need it. But I often wonder who did.

[ 117 ]

“Interest Computation”

[ 118 ]

K. 65

[ 119 ]

[ 120 ]

K.65

GENERAL INSTRUCTIONS

.06

] -Know your personal[ 121ID number before using the Anytime Bank Machine.

-Follow the instructions in the glass window on the face of the machine carefully.

-Press buttons firmly and separately.

-Have deposits and bill payments sealed in an envelope before using the machine.

EPHEMERA

“some notes from life so far : or, an inquest into the notes app”

[ 122 ]

Kaitlyn Stewart

K. 65

things to do today:

I LAUGHED SO HARD I THOUGHT I WOULD DIE

appointments to set up:

I don’t believe in waiting anymore, I don’t believe in watching the world end.

I will throw myself at life. [ 123 ]

today I watched nacho libre for the first time and it was hilarious, I laughed so hard I thought I would die.

I am not dead, dear just felt it sometimes felt like a corpse walking.

passwords:

“some notes from life so far : or, an inquest into the notes app”

books to buy for school:

songs to play at my funeral:

sorry life’s too much sometimes [ 124 ] reasons to stay alive:

movies to watch:

poems I love:

people I love:

SORRY LIFE’S TOO MUCH SOMETIMES

I love you Mom, Dad

Kaitlyn Stewart

K. 65

I don’t believe in waiting anymore, I don’t believe in watching the world end. I will throw myself at life.

[ 125 ]

things to do today:

“Polaroid”

[ 126 ]

“Envelope Liner”

K. 65

[ 127 ]

“Dear universe”

REAGENT AND INHIBITOR OF OUR CHEMICAL IMBALANCES,

[ 128 ]

Drew Windish

K. 65

Dear universe

KEEPING PRACTICAL HORIZONS

we’re back on nicotine, by the way. rebranded and packaged into the new millennium. not that you’d care [ 129 ] for the affairs of atoms, compartmentalized, weighed by managerial decimals larger than ourselves. reagent and inhibitor of our chemical imbalances, keeping practical horizons always in the distance. but everything is born

“Dear universe”

to add to the existing entropy of this universe,

and even the almighty falls from the heavens, [ 130 ] with then no sky to leap from when we rip, crunch, or freeze — in the end — your manipulation and indifference can’t un-pollute away the disappearing of our starry nights. if I could pray, attune exhaust to make ends

TO ADD TO THE ENTROPY OF THIS UNIVERSE,

I will not apologize when it is my turn to provoke.

Drew Windish

K. 65

meet, we might industrialize heat death together, but only if

[ 131 ]

you would pray for me.

“Here’s how to use your Anytime Bank”

[ 132 ]

“Computer Keys”

K. 65

[ 133 ]

“To the Girl Who Took Me to the Lookout Tower Tonight”

[ 134 ]

I FEEL LIKE BEING FORGOTTEN, / TO FADE INTO THE STILLNESS /

Jamie Hall

K. 65

Did you know the stars / would shine like gemstones / in a puddle of clay? / Often they / look to me / like a space where the lightning gets in, / static / crawling into my head, / but tonight / I feel like [ 135 ] being / forgotten, / to fade into the stillness / between your arms; / let me be / a lake of fire / your cool touch strokes / into a field of lilacs, / let me slip / into your Lethe. / I wanted time / to be a train, / that is, / to have no rear-view mirror, / that is, / to be hardly anything / at all; /

“To the Girl Who Took Me to the Lookout Tower Tonight”

but now it seems / like an up-gathering / of long-stemmed flowers / and are you still awake? / There is nowhere / to be but / here; / I have no one / to be but / the loosely bound bundle of shadows / hovering beside you [ 136 ] there, / a half-defined form / dancing at the edge / of your touch. / So before dawn glares at us / with a frightening eye, / beating its lashes / against our sullied faces, / and the wooden stairs crane / toward the road again, / let your hair / rip the wind, /and be like the river, / black-mudded, /

A HALF-DEFINED FORM / DANCING AT THE EDGE / OF YOUR TOUCH. /

Jamie Hall

K. 65

a gash in the Earth’s lighted frenzies, / pouring out / sweet nothingness.

[ 137 ]

[ 138 ]

[ 139 ]

“Digestion Red”

[ 140 ]

Samiya Rasheed

K. 65

Ingredients: -3 cups rice -6 cups water -Patience

K.65 Step 1: make rice

Should I get started on dinner?

Can I buy three days in your guts, in your body? in your love? paint myself digestion red?

Oh you ate out? [ 141 ] nevermind Nevermind, I’ll take a knife to the tension and eat that instead

103132160 a694d886

.07

10/10/2021

General Admission SUNY Student

You don’t remember the first meal I ever cooked for you I do —because I was way too young and dumb and I cut my knuckle at the edge and got a scab, not a scar and I still draw it on sometimes You liked the taste —there wasn’t blood in it but you devoured me anyways

$0.00

Access our map, audio, and more at moma.org/guide

Your ticket includes EPHEMERA

“Digestion Red”

[ 142 ] I want your teeth closing down on me I want the words shoved down my throat to end up in yours I want you to dine, feast, consume I don’t wash the rice when I’m

alone, but I do it for you

A meal is devotion A recipe is a love letter I am made of hubris and desperation and garam masala Peel this orange for me (love me back)

A MEAL IS DEVOTION A RECIPE IS A LOVE LETTER

Care for curry? Onion base— aromatic romantics so we can cleave my onion skin cry for me please make me your base pillars of salt and ginger every dish is me on your tongue let me give you acid reflux by next year tear us to shreds

Samiya Rasheed

K. 65

I can’t try to escape being my mother’s daughter Perfect meals for pithy praise and a partner uncaring Food is love, food is trauma, food is digested in three to five days I’m carved from the recipe, you’ll forget the taste [ 143 ]

Step 2: swallow your pride

“General Admission”

[ 144 ]

“Grand Concert”

K. 65

[ 145 ]

“Snowy Solitude”

NEITHER OF YOU SURPRISED TO FIND THE OTHER

[ 146 ]

Michaela Harding

K. 65

The door opens, letting in a gust of wind and a fine powder of snow crystals.

He shuffles in, wrapped from neck to toe in a heavy brown cloak, and shuts the door behind him.

He looks at you, and neither of you are surprised to find the other.

“Good to see you here,” he grunts.

His hair is striped [ 147 ] with gray, damp from melting snow.

You’re in your favorite armchair in your favorite spot, just far enough away from the cranky fire so that your eyebrows don’t get singed off, but close enough that you can feel the roaring heat.

He sits in the armchair opposite you, an equal distance from the fireplace.

“Tea?” you say.

“Please,” he says.

“Black tea, steeped for”—

“Snowy Solitude”

“Three minutes, with a single cube of sugar.”

You’re already getting up to start the kettle.

He warms his hands over the fire. A stray spark pops, floats up, and nestles itself into his beard before glimmering out.

You wonder when you’ll be able to grow your beard like his. [ 148 ]

“You working now?

At the farm?”

“Just quit,” you say.

“Ah,” he says.

“You’re then.”

The kettle makes a small hum.

“And you?”

Michaela Harding

K. 65

DEATH DOESN’T FEEL SCARY

“Thought I would travel for a bit,” he says.

His voice is coarser than the coals in the fireplace.

“These old bones can’t do much anymore.”

“Does it bother you, being old?”

“Bothers me? [ 149 ] My body reminds me every day.” He laughs, but there’s no smile on his face.

“No, as in, is it scary? Knowing that your last day must be soon?”

You don’t look at him while you talk.

“Death doesn’t feel scary,” he says. “But when that last day comes...I don’t know.”

“Snowy Solitude”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know if anyone will want to be by my side.”

“You won’t be alone,” you say, but it feels like the empty words of a friend who doesn’t know what [ 150 ] else to say to someone grieving a loss.

“It’ll be that way since we’ve been in this old hut,” he grumbles.

The kettle starts to wail, and you remove it from the stove promptly. You pour hot water over the teabags in the mugs, each with a cube of sugar.

You hand him his mug.

“I’m just trying to figure out what I’m doing next.”

Michaela Harding

K. 65

BUT IT FEELS LIKE THE EMPTY WORDS OF A FRIEND

“You’ll never know.

No one ever knows.You just have to do something.”

“Did you do something?” you ask.

“I lived in a hut for many years after quitting my job,” he says. [ 151 ] “Lived off of potatoes once the money ran out.”

You’ve got potato seeds in the shed, ready to plant in the spring.

“But it’s hard moving back into the city,” you say. “Too many people.”

“They’re difficult to understand, aren’t they?”

He chuckles, a real laugh this time.

“Snowy Solitude”

He’s chugged down his tea, despite the alarming heat.

“Well, I must be going.”

“Already?”

“I’ve stayed here far too many days. I’m ready to be somewhere [ 152 ] else, actually.”

He puts up his cloak hood.

You open the door for him, and the chill swoops in.

“Safe travels,” you say as he shambles out.

He doesn’t get very far, because he trips and lands face-down. You run out to him into the howling snow, and turn him over. He feels looser than you expected.

Michaela Harding

K. 65

He’s become bones in his cloak. The abysses of his eye sockets glare into your eyes. His skull still has that admirable beard covering his ghastly smile.

The ground’s too frozen for you to make any headway in burying him, so he goes into the shed. You’ll take him into town once the blizzard stops, give him a proper burial.

You forget anyway when spring arrives, so he never leaves the shed.

Many years later, you remember your fondness for the hut. You gather up your cloak and walk many miles to find it.

Its roof has caved in, [ 153 ] and the door has blown open.

Snow has settled in the fireplace. You should be waiting there for you, but you’re not.

You run away from that dead place, but you stumble, falling into the dizzying whiteness of the snow and then you become bones, too.

The blizzard returns each year. And the hut is eaten away by decay, until it’s nothing more than emaciated timber, until it’s nothing at all, until the only thing that is the same as it once was is the snow piling onto the ridge, choking out the sun.

[ 154 ]

[ 155 ]

“Monotype”

[ 156 ]

K. 65

K.65

Doesn’t it feel nice to write someone a letter?

.08

[ 157 ] Doesn’t it feel nice to receive a letter from someone?

This is an advertisement by me for the post office.

The New Yorker, February 16, 2015 63 EPHEMERA

“When I opened my eyes”

[ 158 ]

BY

Katherine Newman

K. 65

THE PEOPLE HAVE GROWN TIRED

- When I opened my eyes, I saw only a flash of light, A cry of a thousand living Becoming the chorus of Heaven A mortal, in the flesh, zeitgeist of our Cultural apathy, yet obsession of, death.

Shadows on the asphalt wavered Like faltering planes in the sky; That falls to earth and becomes nothingness.

Dying is easy and living is the hardest part; To become a smear on the ground is to Live forever in the mortal consciousness.

Those blackened memories shrivel up [ 159 ] In pure waters, to sicken the living, To make death an appealing affair.

What becomes of the living, who refuse The toxic and bitter affair of dying and to become A subject to dissect for future generations?

They become anecdotes, they become Messengers of doom, to warn of our mistakes.

So when I went to work with a numb mind, Got off the train at dawn, hoped I’d be back by dusk, Closed my eyes in abject boredom ------------------------------------------In the shadow of the end, When the winds were idle, And the earth heaved a sigh, People carried on.

There might have been a ghost In the echoes of time But the people won’t hear it, The people have grown tired

“When I opened my eyes”

Lessons learned are carved Into scars, divuts, of primordial flesh There is a little too much to map.

Bones have begun to appear In the dry-bed of long-dead lakes But the people are fishing elsewhere So dig elsewhere.

We lay in beds made before dawn, With the skeletons of the forgotten.

Put your ear to the walls of homes Where the baby-blue wallpaper is peeling But the people are gone. [ 160 ] Those lessons are carved, but they’re Being forgotten, in lieu of new ones.

In the shadow of the end, The people carried on They’re not gone, Not yet.

BY

IN THE SHADOW OF THE END, THE PEOPLE CARRIED ON -

Katherine Newman K. 65

[ 161 ]

“Last Light”

[ 162 ]

K. 65

[ 163 ]

“the harmony of we”

WHERE YOU’RE YOU ALL ALONE. WITHOUT THE HARMONY OF WE,

[ 164 ]

Saraya Windibiziri

K. 65

1)

i have tasted the milk leftover from your bowl of cereal. i have seen your hair in the morning. you have seen the flowers in my garden. the butterflies that land on my feet. my knife skills on a chopping [ 165 ] is board when it finally time to eat. you have heard my songs, sang along once you were comfortable with the tune. i found lyrics because of you

2)

i trace the lines on your palms until i find where i break off. where you’re you all alone. without the harmony of we, of us, of close enough to

“the harmony of we”

touch and become one. how must i stand on my own two feet. how must i walk and not lean and not reach out for your hand. I remember the darkness on your palm. the stories etched into skin, and they’re far [ 166 ] more beautiful than my own. you are sincere.

3)

it is time i close my eyes to feel my breath fill up my lungs, expand my chest. It is time i breathe deeply. deep enough for my toes to curl. my fist to unclench. my fingers are waiting for the sky and the moonlight and

Saraya Windibiziri

K. 65

IT IS TIME I BREATHE DEEPLY

the stardust. it is time to breathe with a depth that reaches my soul, unlocks the home inside my heart, so the next time i’m ready to fall all apart into the ocean, i can stand still and admire the waves crashing [ 167 ] and turning and curling and exhaling onto the shore 4)

reflection i can see the water i can see the sun’s shine i can see clouds, and sheets of rain falling beautifully, destructively, purposefully

“the harmony of we”

i can see the places where ocean waves meet the sand, and its wetness sticks to my toes. its scent lingers on my skin. its particles clutch my clothes. my towel. the soles of my shoes. [ 168 ]

i can taste the salt and the honey too.

i can see smiles. i can see hugs. i can see the physical manifestations of comforting tugs.

Saraya Windibiziri

K. 65

i pay attention to the sky and its choices. its madness. its obstructions. the difficulties it causes for new drivers and people walking on the streets when its finally lunch hour. [ 169 ]

i can believe its shining rays and rosy clouds. i cannot believe dimpled cheeks and sparkling eyes.

i cannot believe my own voice could defy your frown.

“the harmony of we”

i cannot believe my touch may break open dams, break apart boundaries, obstruct [ 170 ] walls, and tension until melting consumes you. i can melt too.

i choose canopies and cool grass.

MY SAD MANIFESTING, BUILDING, ROARING UNTIL IT IS SEEN LIKE RAINCLOUDS

Saraya Windibiziri

K. 65

i choose beaches and rooftops, so golden fills my grayish skin. my sad manifesting, building, roaring until it is seen like rainclouds. their darkness sends warning signs, and [ 171 ] people listen. people would rather stay dry and untouched, unscathed by glorious disastrous rush.

“the harmony of we”

MY THUNDER IS OBNOXIOUS ANNOYING HEARTBREAKING LOUD ABRASIVE

i can see impending doom in the mirror. i can feel its claws come out and ruin peaceful living rooms like torrential rain indoors. but the doors are closed. my thunder is obnoxious annoying heartbreaking [ 172 ] loud abrasive. my cries are whines and jagged edges and take out your journal instead because it’s time for me to go to bed. i would rather meet dreams than listen to your screams. i am sorry, they say, but i have had enough for today.

I AM SORRY,

Saraya Windibiziri

K. 65

[ 173 ]

[ 174 ]

[ 175 ]

“EPHEMERA” Contributors

L MILLER [ 10–13 ] ASHLEY ARANDA [ 16–19 ; 34–37 ; 78–79 ] BRIGHTON ROHLMAN [ 20–21 ; 154–155 ] ELYSSA BEZNER [ 22–25 ] TIM DO [ 27 ; 72–75 ] MG HIGGINBOTHAM [ 28–33 ] BRAD MATHEWSON [ 40–43 ] DARIAN MARTIN [ 48–53 ; 80–85 ] ISAAC MORRIS [ 56–59 ] GRACE COOPER [ 62–65 ] JANIE RAINER [ 68–69 ; 96–97 ] KAITLYN STEWART [ 70–71 ; 120–123 ] SAMIYA RASHEED [ 76–77 ; 138–141 ] PADDY QIU [ 90–95 ] [ 176 ] MADELINE CLARK [ 100–107 ; 110–115 ]

AIDEN HEADRICK [ 108 ] BEN TENTIS [ 118–119 ] TAYLIN WELLS [ 124 ] DREW WINDISH [ 126–129 ] JAMIE HALL [ 132–135 ] FAITH MADDOX [ 136–137 ] CASH ERIKSON [ 143 ] MICHAELA HARDING [ 144–151 ] KATHERINE NEWMAN [ 156–159 ] OLYVIA YOUNG [ 160 ] SARAYA WINDIBIZIRI [ 162–171 ]

“EPHEMERA” Design Staff

ANNA MATUELLA CONNOR O’NEILL ELLEN RICE

K. 65

CREDITS

“EPHEMERA” Literature Staff

JOSH RUBINO ELYSSA BEZNER ASHLEIGH WAGGONER KAITLYN STEWART ALLY JENNINGS HATTIE FRIESEN KATIE NEWMAN NAOMI JAMES LAINEY MONNINGTON LUCY AXMANN [ 177 ] JOSIAH Z. LIANG ISABELLA BRAY HELENE BECHTEL LAUREN MILLER MORGAN VAN DER WEGE OLIVIA YOUNG GRACE COOPER SIVANI BADRIVENKATA FALL.2021

“EPHEMERA” Letter from the Editors

THANK YOU

[ 178 ]

K. 65

Dear Readers, Kiosk is an opportunity for undergraduate students to push the boundaries of art and literature. With each new issue, we hope to provide a look into the diverse artistic talent across KU campus. From forays into the unfamiliar to finding meaning in everyday moments, we pride ourselves on including a variety of undergraduate work. We strive to display the ways words and images can create unexpected connections.

Every edition of Kiosk is crafted around a central theme. For K.65, we asked authors and artists to show us things that do not last; moments that are forgotten, discarded. We asked creatives what it means to be ephemeral. We wanted to challenge [ 179 ] notions of what should or should not be included in a magazine like Kiosk and what is considered “art.” In this edition, you will not only find wonderful, fleeting moments in poetry, prose, and visual art, but bits and pieces of the material world in which we live. We hope this collection will allow you to ruminate on the brevity of life and find meaning in things often deemed meaningless.

We would like to sincerely thank our wonderful staff and our fantastic advisors–Mary Klayder and Andrea Herstowski–for helping us create this edition of Kiosk.

To our family, friends, and you, our readers, thank you for supporting our work. In this time of unprecedented uncertainty and loss, we invite you to take a moment and savor those moments that might have been forgotten otherwise. We encourage you to join us in reflecting on what we leave behind and the things that tell our stories, even when we do not recognize them as doing so.

Yours, Josh Rubino & Elyssa Bezner

“EPHEMERA” Closing Spread

CLOSING SPREAD

[ 180 ]

What do we want to leave behind?

What do we leave behind?

What is left behind?

What is left?

What?

?