1: REAL Potluckians spotted in the wild, potlucking
Fig.
The summer noon is a brighter night
Hushed living dissolving into what you want
The door open but curtains drawn
One asleep the other dreaming on
Summer noon, the heat beats down on the pavement
I'm sheltered.
The duty of the sheltered, to shelter more
Dahlia, Rose and Lizzy, the lizard
Sheltered in the balcony of my home, Flourishing, amidst endlessn
California dreaming, the supporting artist to the hum of fans and ACs
Poetry, escaping from the drunken otherwise anxious heart
Colors parceled from Spain and orange 90s America
Into the bleached yellow of my tropical town
Summer noon is my brighter night
Wide awake, the dreams filling the expanded space
While the world lazily aestivates
My shelter lets me bloom, Dahlia, Rose, and Lizzy, the lizard
Quiet, sleepy, probably dreaming, wide awake
With a home, sheltered like me.
the smell of springtime, the ticking clock in a classroom and longing for summer, the childlike wonder that emerges when the flower blooms, and the full becoming of nature
Excerpts from “Vespers”
by Louise Glück
... and it was my heart broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly multiplying in the rows
I must report failure in my assignment, principally regarding the tomato plants
Cacophonies
A hull of chocolate sorrow lays beneath the arid waves, stern and bow meet end to end to end, anchored to the seafloor unbounded by the shore, sweetened by the song of sirens lost at home.
Long above yet longer still below, the masts stand taller than moonlit rays of hope.
Fleets too close together span horizons yet unseen, where wisps of shredded, sickly sails whisper breathlessly.
Pods of blackened dolphins soar, their fins refined and cut and sold for life atop the silent shoals, high above the clouded thoughts of absent time, free to roam the land and sea of stars.
A thousand effervescent echoes murmur through the night and take their lives through journeyed treasuries. The world screams in harmonious cacophony, yet all at once is serene.
last summer
i love you even more than most people fear you. you. your swirling whirling churning soul-sucking currents.
rocks tumbling, i hear them. you are powerful. do you know this? you move mountains bit by bit by grit and silt and sand your water is clear so i jump and trust you hold me in your liquid arms
. eyes alight, laughter aflight, body afloat
your current is home, your eddys my faith your midnight moon my own north star.
your constant flow. do you know? the power of your river beat.
claustrophobic
welded steel, cast latex of the artist’s face, jesmonite pigment, silver thread, and fishing line
flesh - pantyhose, stuffing, yarn, and thread
an exploration of bodily violence and change page 12 page 12 page
The Praying Mantis is Far Greater Than the Priest when i lay myself down i ask to be taken in by the bugs. no more of this heaven-or-hell nonsense. i want to fall into the damp soil beneath me and be utterly demolished. the idea of maggots eating away at my ribs and relishing in the stench of my rotting flesh is far more appealing than dipping my hands in holy water to save myself from my own contaminated soul. to the sermon over my encased, lifeless body i say no thank you. to the worms that find home in my abandoned eye sockets i say yes please. i long for the welcoming crawl of an elder beetle the prospect of nourishing her children with my decaying breasts, providing a safe haven for them with my otherwise fruitless womb. how disappointed he would be–his constant message of devotion only culminating to caterpillars tasting my lips and tongue dried from the forced repetition of the prayer. so today, all that I wish for is a return to home. not the one with guarded gates who only answers to those who are clean, whole, pure but the one right beneath my feet who takes me in with the chirp of the cicada, despite my filthy body and sickening conscience.
Cover
She was art
Living and breathing amongst salesmen
Of every size, shape, and color
Within a microcosm of hatred, She prospered
Her soul lit up space
Her eyes slowed down time
Until you were fixed--staring, Gawking-- at her face
Her lips spoke in song
Her hands always danced when she alked and talked and ate and shopped
She was pigment on troubled hearts
The stain, permanent
Yet she was blotted out of history
Like a mistaken penstroke
Mending
100% found materials - wooden frame, cotton fabric, embroidery floss, yarn, thread, stuffing, and beads.
Found and discarded materials are used to explore mending, reusing, and navigating healing and harm in relationships. These concepts come together in the form of visible stitches, bright colors, and a sentimental feel that acknowledges and visualizes wounds of the past while celebrating their contribution to the larger piece.
They sit tucked away on a shelf, in the back of a closet, between books, under a bed, at the bottom of a filing cabinet, in the false bottom of a drawer.
Filled with photos, receipts that should have been thrown out a long time ago, cut-up negatives, faded movie tickets, expired makeup, worn playbills, torn-out magazine pages, tarnished jewelry, yellowed letters, collected rocks, shells, sea glass, broken trinkets, pieces of people we once loved and people we once were.
Everyone has a box
An ancient wooden jewelry box, from a mother or grandmother or yard sale, worn around the edges, raw wood peeking out the corners
A dusty shoebox, from that long gone pair of sneakers, bold logo on the side, sticker still in the corner.
A pink crate, paint peeling off the wood, slats broken and bent.
An old chest, shut tight, lock rusted, key missing
change
that was then there now im here now get up get dressed
why does the sun shine every fucking day
life was fertile soil green trees coffee shops on cold fall days grandmotherly gossip i should call her more my bed is higher perpetual summer camp deadlines essays B+ in art change is. it is. it isn’t hard bad awful hate it just different.
page 27 page 27
group chat
i learned to say 'i love you ’
platonic group chat lols and when can we hang out
we rode the bus together i said it was my first time independence was the real accomplishment
then my license, ultimate freedom
we hate on cars, yelling chants writing emails protests are our playgrounds we like the swingsets, too
1: With Regards, From Shade of the Summer Noon - Archana
1: Cardboard Alex - Theresa Provasnik
2: Spacing Out - Sophie David
3: Flora - Theresa Provasnik
3: growing - Ukiah Halloran-Steiner
3,4: Transforming - Gabby Vanausdale
4: Community Care - Gabby Vanausdale
5: Jaqui, untitled - Clara Falkenheim
6: Tomato Shirt - Alexandra Provasnik
7: blue prints - Theresa Provasnik
7: Cacophonies - Wil Kirkland
8: last summer - Ukiah Halloran-Steiner
8: the fort & naya ’ s shoes - Ella Piersma
9: c'est comme tu veux - Cassidy Bensko
10: Who is on the silliest side of the glass? - Cassidy Bensko
11: Organ as Art - Lena Farley
11: claustrophobic - Mikayla Stout
12: flesh - Mikayla Stout
13: What Is Wild? - Ella Piersma
14: untitled - Kaitlyn Yasumura
15: madonna and child -EK Kim
15,16: Wilt, Soft - Miranda Yee
16: The Praying Mantis is Far Greater Than the Priest - Shae Cogswell
17: Complimentary Colors - Riley Thibodeau
17: Cover - Lily Azigbo
17: Pillars of Creation - Sofia Segal
18: Western Stuff - Kate Piersall
18: mending - Mikayla Stout
19: untitled - Caitlyn Sun
20: Love you! - Daniela Zepeda
al Entries - Ally Samson
ose Gleiberman
berry ! - Alyssa Hernandez
ntitled - Gabby Vanausdale
as a box - Ella Pierma
n GJW 226, Entrance,
kiah Halloran-Steiner
ose Gleiberman
ey - Kate Piersall
Goods - Will Roberts
ing - Kate Piersall
li Bharadwj
e the Fairies once Freely Fle
- Shefali Bharadwaj
ght - Claire Bell
p chat - Ukiah Halloran-Steiner
ps sightings - Ella Piersma
athe Naomi Fireman Schiavoni
nda Yee
onstera - Claire Bell
Yee
als - Gabby
ee - Maya R Provasnik
- Ella Hous Vanausdale
- Safiya Ma
y eyes - EK ield
ate Piersall
y Thibodeau
eresa Provasnik
