Deluge (Issue Three, Fall '14)

Deluge Magazine

DELUGE ISSUE THREE

FALL 2014

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FALL, TWENTY-FOURTEEN DELUGE is the official literary magazine of Radioactive Moat Press.

DELUGE seeks poetry and prose, translations, essays, review, criticism, poemfilms, photography, art, art, and any variations of [anti]

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MANAGING EDITOR PAUL CUNNINGHAM

FEATURED ARTIST KIM VODICKA

www.radioactivemoat.com

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NSFW 4 lyfe.

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FALL, TWENTY-FOURTEEN ISSUE THREE

KIM VODICKA

[p. 11]

SADE MURPHY

[p. 17]

MONICA MCCLURE

[p. 18]

GINGER KO

[p. 21]

COLIN POST

[p. 23]

ED STECK

[p. 30]

JACE BRITTAIN

[p. 35]

BROOKE ELLSWORTH

[p. 44]

ROBERTO MONTES

[p. 46]

JOSH FOMON

[p. 51]

MADELINE WEISS

[p. 53]

ELAINE HSIANG

[p. 54]

RACHEL ZAVECZ

[p. 57]

JAMISON CRABTREE

[p. 59]

DREW KALBACH

[p. 62]

COOP LEE

[p. 66]

CHANELLE BERGERON

[p. 70]

REBECCA LOUDON

[p. 74]

SHIPLEY & KLASSNIK

[p. 76]

LEORA FRIDMAN

[p. 78]

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

[p. 84]

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KIM VODICKA [Del❤xe Dreamium]

Adam and Eve on a raft, get me hard.

When I bust a nut I raise the bar.

Cocaine and Enabler bottled up the raunchy.

Through a tight asshole, retardedly, no homo.

With a long, fingerling finish Adam and Yeast Infection in thing bikinis, supernaturally monkey.

Wrestlin’ angels, stank hearts.

This is my achy breaky heart buffet.

The fried chicken commiserations committee.

I have a Beavis in Scorpio and a moon in Roseanne.

Spoil your loved one with ASS GLAM.

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12 When your face isn’t quite it but just that.

Arisen by any name wouldn’t smell so man.

A bouquet of rose dicks for the rest of our laughs.

My tits are pixelated.

My G-spot is bleached.

My inner child was molested long ago.

My apocalypse are sealed.

I am a Taco Bell Official Lowbrow Escapist.

My life is a straight-to-video porn.

My mind is a bug hotel.

I love my trash vagina.

This is the open-ass surgery of song.

So says the consequence dances.

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[S❤mething Ratchet This Way Voms]

This doesn’t feel like magic.

When you’re given a mile and take an inch.

It’s A-ok and a weird place to put your hand, but don’t babysit it.

Hey, lovelies, a kiddley divey, lots of mind.

I want to love you, but outcomes, a steaming pile drive.

The ego knows the tone of your utmost pleasure.

Even in my driest dreams, it rubs up the bubbly and freak dat.

My pussy is a wall of shame.

Once, twice, three times a hot, mismatched mess.

And my pretty pink feelings.

Love is the incapacitation of the faint of tonight’s the night.

A special, super rainbow, someone, dream sweetboat.

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14 So when push comes on over, come on over.

Spread the worms.

She had cobwebs on her kind, as tears fell upon the beglittered gathering.

Cum dumpster diver in the butt crack region of your soul.

I’m the royal, tough titty potty mouth.

Let me slip into something a bit more comatose.

Sobriety checkpoint by the brides.

Like cocksucker blues, a classic of a mojo moonlight.

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[Trash F❤sh]

My achy breaky heart buffet.

The asshole that is my mind.

Yes, I am a big ol’ bitch, and you best stand behind me.

Feminist is next to godliness.

Behind every great man is a woman with a strap-on.

All women are born with Stockholm Syndrome.

I hate men, isn’t that sexy?

Monkey see, monkey do me.

Rubbers are bullshit, and so is fucking.

Farting is better.

I think that you can rape the willing.

The non-consensual grope that becomes consensual is the very merry unbirthday gift that keeps on regifting.

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16 Assholes guffawing.

Brothers and sisters in Ew. He just don’t take his dick out like he used to.

Little turdy two-shoes.

The devil with too many advocates.

Jean-Paul Gaultiache lies upon a bed of thongs.

Is it a bitch, or a male ardor botch?

Gaslighting B. Anthony.

Same shit, different bidet.

Each night is like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

I die on the Titanic each night.

Each night, I OD on knockoffs.

NSFW 4 lyfe.

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SADE MURPHY [3 dream machines]

128. My friends and I at an in vitro fertilization clinic. But late to board the bus. I was running and boy scouts were laughing at me. I stood knocking at the glass door but the driver stared ahead blank like I was a ghost. And I am not invisible just look at my pancreas. I mean I may have an onion skin but I croak out a protest to the grey light hazing the room until it vomits a steady yellow and my eyelids are no longer laser red.

377. The remains increase unstably. There is no hope of re-emerging. One only travels further forward, deeper still. I worry over the end. Is it a magmatized core I’m strangling towards? Is it a perpendicular horizon mist? Will I approach my own pupil membrane with a cellophane lens? The waking is weary. Some quadrants are cruel. A hill ripe with dandelions and rock crystal lollies. The sunniest mound. Small girls are raped behind a portable blackboard and disregarded. They play with dolls that have no eyes. Their sweaters catch perfumed fire threatening their stiff spritz curls.

55. Welcome to the dispersed air glimmered with diseases. Crows aghast waterwaysaway to the Himalayas.

The new sewageage entombed off the map, soured slid belligerent. Emboldened adventure language shot out naked rats. Monsters skittered their marbles to glue, found Wall Street in West Virginia. Travelers plink and blam their pants suspected steam circled clawed gummy carnival critters. Trumped up wings diatribe.

So it clones. You gone behold a moth.

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MONICA MCCLURE [Candy Flipping]

I’ll miss coming home and kissing my twinks when the work of twinks falls out of parlance when we grow paunches I walked past the Nuyorican Poets Cafe for the first time after taking my clothes off for a mannerly photographer He must not see many girls with an ass like this He asked, “Can I say something sexist?”

I could hear the echoes of woo girls outside of last night’s bars When owls say woo during the daytime your bad luck ends there Doom takes over This is the end of your family line Across the border rainbow flags tatter The mothers wearing clogs push listlessly against the willows woo their babies woo past the yard of absence the homeless lean-to long-gone I did something poetic today when I faced the wall and let him fire rapid shots He was famous in the 80s I don’t want to be an incubator for meaning I want to stick to the membrane and make some money before the white owl curses my last beads

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[Funny Money]

Someday I’ll be a nectarine girl. wearing a sari at Ethnic Appreciation Day where I have been invited to induct the International Day of Love and pose for a picture with Colin Powell I’m sure I will like the squishy blood on his palms pink faces doused in fake cum I’ll get on my knees for war criminals and music producers What is best for my little earthlings is best for my conscience I don’t feel bad accepting money in exchange for healing love acts Eros has her own currency Some people say I should be a model or an Indie queen But all I really want is to live a good life paid for by someone who feels illiterate in symbolic systems of manhood For him I will fill the bathtub with expensive rosewater that I got for free in swag bags I’ll stuff holes with pure sugar cane bought with the IMF budget of countries who failed to understand the compromising nature of relationships On this special day I encourage you to keep track of how many songs you get per lap dance

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[Opportunity Costs]

When I’m having trouble conceptualizing for pseudo-intellectuals at the party I’m only mimicking the psychic structures I’m describing The women at the dry bar are having their oils blasted by the fingers of strangers The window is like a fascist city All you need for a movie is a camera with an open aperture There are two reasons a woman goes to the dry bar: a date or a job interview How appallingly self-preservative of them I want someone like me And what is something I want besides something I want to have I created a prize for a woman to be accepted tonight at Cipriani for exemplary Humanitarian Service Despite Her Internationally Fluent Attractiveness She’s been pursued by hegemony from such a tender age But chose to forgo the more lucrative choice So now she is at the dry bar a subject invented and surveilled with the stranger’s air on her scalp and my gaze pushing cervical inside I sat through all five hours of Faust Then I cried from Times Square to Brooklyn wearing the wrong outfit When I got home I made a Wiccan circle with batteries and masturbated to fall asleep after my boyfriend passed out drunk The next day he dumped me on gchat for being secretive

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GINGER KO

[Prayer For What’s Close]

Let me stay here in the West please God Let me live on in shabby comfort Let me find the tinned tomatoes aisle without wandering Let me feel safe enough to have children someday I’ll make every day worthy and won’t be unpleasant I’ll remember not to dissolve into a malcontent I’ll breathe and other cleansing things I’ll wake in the mornings and write affirmations Such as If I bother eating vitamins then I should admit I’m interested Such as I’m lucky to have Nick and mustn’t grind him down because he lets me Such as I can be cool and lucky when I choose Such as (Nick again because he’s important) His mouth parted and flush And with a pen’s ink that’s indelible my God I promise I’m not changeable just look at what I’ve been praying all these years Gripping snowflakes with pinches I’m ready for the sharpness of this because now I know that it’ll be sharp This thing which is summer without mosquitoes and some sunshine why not This thing which is a lovely life This thing which is unpacking This thing which is picking a spot on the wall for a picture as if it mattered dear God

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[Frenemy]

Cool cool you’ve learned how to breathe freely cool for you You boom your voice with such bravado that you choke a mosh-pit I actually enjoy your straight-backed chanting With your mouth agape so different from my cross-legged keening I want to be cool about thinking aloud how do I do that How do I get enough lip to cover the molar rows on my palate How do I sew the stomach that gapes fatty yellow If I have no medical training How kind sir do I learn to use your buckets of blood Without trying to up the spray with a fur stole How do I stop myself will you show how you shut me up and out Oh like this with a ____ to my ____

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COLIN POST [lynx perpetual lynx]

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ED STECK

[excerpts from AN INTERFACE FOR A FRACTAL LANDSCAPE]

from CRO-ADONIS

The interface is a classic relief into the window to a window of the fractal landscape. It is an interception of patterns that construct the concept of formal paths of statements, starting with the impossibilities of virtual arrangements, as if to calculate: repetitious patterns calculate reproductions As Cro-Adonis-x.26 prepares the total detoxification of virtual skin textures to avoid accidental fractal terrain algorithmic absorption. The lucidity of touch reviles. Prepped for one last marathon salt refinement cleansing, the CRO-AD unit postulates, affixing gaze coordinates to the suitably betrothed landscape outside, at the window / The plastic reformation of reality is outside the window /

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Upon rehearsing the actions associated with the contents of MemoryCache_A, the flickering modes of CRO-AD archival approaches began to respond to applicative data entry requirements on their own. Cro-Adonis-x.26 moved the physical embodiment of the archival process through the gridlayered landscape projected by the confines of its algorithms. Cro-Adonis-x.26 simulates thought / One node of the cache was one growth sector of the landscape It reflected onto the shambling pixels of my body / The discrepancy was sustained — the constant movement of the natural confused the stagnant orbit of what moves through the fractals. To break its invisible borders in the movement of all things – both touched by the non-technological and both moved by the touch of the naturalized action. Cro-Adonis-x.26 departs its chamber, enters the fractal landscape, and looks to the artificial light source of the non-moon.

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Cro-Adonis-x.26, wandering, could no longer see its proto-beloved quarters that housed its salt refinement cleansing chamber –- hidden behind the walled consumption of a numeric-constructed fog, a muddled thickness appearing as medley-ladled confinement almost dripping with open captivity’s illusion of freedom. In one dawning horizon-less movement, entirely unapproachable and appearing lightly sketched, the organic-android moved its hand over the patch of nothingness.

All of the surveillant points within the CRO-AD Unit’s GLOPE (Geographic Locator of Organized Pixel Entrances) picto-cataloged each pixel of the overbearing fog into a regrouped eco-spreadsheet.

Parsing the pixels’ lines and stoppages into a triangle’s reductions, Cro-Adonis-x.26, turning, sees a thick, unreadable atmosphere beyond the self-generated, corroding eco-perspective: a single line starting at a nearest point and ending at the farthest point passes over the fractal landscape’s fauxcurving planetary scope. / Everything is a construction of the line /

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Pulling out its TART_SET handheld device, the organic-android enters data fragments of the pictocataloged pixel reductions into the applicable open fields of the device’s software, points the device at the crag-prone fractal landscape peaks, turns around, and projects its picto-calculations onto the vertical fog blockage. Each pixel segment has been minimized to the occupied absent space found in its constructed reality, it appears as a typical grid:

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In pixel absentia, the individual grid panels contain multitudes of prospective growth implications.

The fog dissipates. Cro-Adonis-x.26 peers through the gridded emptiness, its stealth veil only hovering systems, picturing the rigid peaks of digital mountains. / A square is a prologue / the thought alarmed the organic-android; in its abrupt materialization, the unit failed to configure the origins of its point of programming, immediately feeling lost in its cerebral circuitry’s foreshortened arrival. Time, enhanced and deflated by its utter non-configurative presence in virtual reality, passes beyond its hierarchical planned adoption and ceases to exist as Cro-Adonis-x.26 sits down on the fractal terrain. If time’s procession could be calculated on Barren Thule, the CRO-AD unit would have aged triplicate as it sat and observed the authentic scale variations of a computer-generated landscape of mimicry.

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JACE BRITTAIN

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[Shortcomings and Goings]

I am Balfour Batton the Fourth. I am a director and documentarian. I will give you fifty bucks to take me to the hospital. Please, take surface streets, do you know what time it is? Yeah, that's what I will say when somebody comes.

The inflammation around my right eye might have left me half-blind were it not for the debris in my left eye—dust or sweat or blood or whatever—which left me nearly two-for-two completely blind. But: a discovery. Utmost effort and concentration provided moments of relative clarity; for a second, I could make out the shapes of my hands when I held them before my face. And more!

For example, I did see briefly but clearly the thin skin of dust coating my arms and clothing, as well as the dirt-caked blood on my knuckles. Oh! I must have hit at least one someone. I whimpered in triumph. Resplendent, I rolled onto my left side. Left shoulder hurt like hell, so in dazzling glory, I returned to my back, rolled to my right side. Halleluwah.

I coughed up something I didn't want to look at. Thinking that I didn't want to die near it either, I rolled left and away from it. I turned over a few times before settling this time on my back. I closed my eyes, certain that time would heal my vision. I coughed again, violently.

Great, I thought: dust in the wrong pipe, debris in the wrong eye, I'm coming apart. My ears ringing, miniature choirs singing microtonal scales to my rest, to sleep, perchance...

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36 No, that's not what microtonal means. Where were my cigarettes? I was afraid I was

gonna have to roll around again to find them, maybe get my eyes open, but a relatively cursory search-by-hand while broadly moving my arms in a frog stroke in my immediate area turned up: gravel, gravel, gravel, dirt...cigarettes! They were only pretty mangled. Any good enough to smoke? I probably only needed one of those. And what luck! My lighter had stayed in my pocket.

Gravel was in my back and one particular sharp little stone poked the back of my head where it did, but my concentration was absolute. A shaky hand lowered the blood smudged and bent cigarette to my lips. But first, I hit my closed better eye with the filter, if the left one was my better eye. Both eyes being closed, neither could attest to his strength or the relative strength of the other. Instead of lifting the cigarette and trying another aerial approach, I just sorta drew the filter end deliberately down my face, past my nose which was almost surely broken and bloodied or gone maybe who knows since everything hurt...I almost breathed the damn thing in during a paroxysmal coughing fit, but ultimately, there it was between lips A and B. I lit it. I took a drag.

The gravel and the dirt made way for my body. I was flat as a board and painless.

Suddenly, I could see everything. I watched my left arm, specifically my little finger unravel tip and down and I was so happy when a little orange ember floated down to meet it...

Owsa! I snapped my head up and smacked the hot little nub remainder of a cigarette away. I opened my eyes and could see out my right one. I could see a pile of gear, my pile of

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gear, black backpacks and bags filled with cameras and cables and other glass and circuits and plastic buttons that had existed at various times as other various amounts of money in various forms. My assailants, chums that they were, had only taken my wallet, which held fifty dollars and a driver's license.

I stood up, surprised to find how easy it was to stand. Sure, my knees were wobbly and the thread of my feet sort of unfurled a little—frayed ends splaying outwards from impact points, but where they did, I could feel an ant leg (for example) and one, two, three, four, five legs more when one whole ant stepped on my frays, and I remembered burning ants as a child one at a time or occasionally en masse, and I wondered whether this was malice. I tried to tisk, tisk my lips, but hadn't that command any more. In fact, I needed to compose my face if I were going to try and act normal. For starters, the string of my nose was hanging down by my hips (a little saggy themselves). I lacked confidence in my ability to lug my gear, but an abandoned three-wheeled shopping cart nearby offered availability. What was the saying about one man's trash? Oho! I was all loose threads. As I lumbered and swayed down the street, I realized I wasn't that far from the shooting site for today. It's really something like kismet—is that the word? I heard it so long ago—to be jumped and battered so near one's destination was certainly nice, in any case. As I lumbered and struggled and swayed down the street, I realized I must look something like those dancing inflatable tube men. Well, this made me chuckle, and I collapsed into a neat little pile of yarn.

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38 As a neat little pile of meat yarn, I was wider than I would have been standing up feet

hips' distance apart, but I was also a shorter as a pile of meat yarn than I would have been standing up. And neat, like pretty compact. A young boy I had seen walking toward me before my precipitous chuckle, leaped onto me with a stomp before launching himself into the air and back down to the sidewalk. At the moment that his sneakers had rested on me and my yarniness, I discovered that many young boys aren't filled with malice, but that they aren't exactly filled with knowledge either—why many young boys (or girls, I thought) do things...must be some nearly divine compulsion, and I felt content that one burned ant might make one boy wiser, sadder, more aware. This boy certainly wasn't feeling malicious when he had jumped and stomped on me. I decided to compose myself.

Tall, walking, walking tall and swaying just a little as I got the hang of being string, occasionally almost disintegrating again with some steps, I watched my cart move slowly before me with my gear teetering within it's metal cage. I was reminded of one of my greatgrandfather's old silent movies, his third of the seventeen he would make and certainly his most popular.

This was the one with the elaborate spiral staircase chase.

It was the one with all the costume changes too, a string of ridiculous disguises.

The skinny: A farce—a lark, in which great-granddad Balfour inhabited for only the second time of one-day eight: the charming scoundrel character.

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39 The scoundrel attempts in ludicrous fashion to attract the attention of a young doe-eyed

girl and succeeds only in attracting the ire of her rolling-pin-wielding mother, a doughy Russian-villain/babushka-looking woman with a heck of a scowl. The mother role had been rewritten from a mustachioed father upon the casting of Barbara Toller, who despite her obvious comedic talents, became a powerful force in my childhood nightmares.

After an errant swing of the rolling pin, the chase begins, oho!

The chase moves quickly through several settings—an iron mill, a printer's pressing room, a gentleman's leisure house, a funeral parlor—and at each locale, the scoundrel's longlimbed clumsiness rubs mustachioed foremen and fedora'd newspaper guys the wrong way. The not-so-far-behind rolling pin-wielding mother convinces these fuming collarboys to join the chase, so that by the time they arrive at the famous metal spiral staircase just behind BB's scoundrel, there's a considerable and madding crowd assembled. Up the spiral staircase BB goes and the frenzied horde behind, all their thunder shaking the fraught iron frame to the tilt. At first one level up, BB slips through the space between two steps and finds himself at the back of the horde, which being all bottled up, isn't moving very fast.

The athleticism displayed by Balfour, my great-grandfather—the energy and verve and the presence—I only ever saw in his movies. If I pictured him, and I did, I saw the gaunt, pale shade I knew for such a short time as he became ever more indistinguishable from the white sheets of the big house's creeky guest bed, his death bed. But picture the scoundrel! Black and white and arched and tip-toed, creeping up on the madding crowd. Oho, oho!

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40 Wide-eyed, BB cranes over the shoulder of the tophatted stranger at the rear of the

horde. The stranger turns and looks at BB's scoundrel. Just as the crooked looking stranger is getting a hold on his suspicions, BB pops the stranger on the nose and stuns him. BB switches hats and pulls his new tophat down so as to cover his face before raucously calling attention to himself and pointing at the formerly-tophatted stranger. Convinced the stunned stranger is their scoundrel, the crowd carries the man down the stairs and away. BB, spinning gaily from the force of the crowd's departure and whistlingly tipping his cap in the modest glee of private victory, bumps into the enormous doughy breast of his nemesis, the wielder of the rolling pin who is now alone with him. She bares her checkertoothed grin and takes a big swing at the hero/scoundrel. He ducks and loses only his hat, squeaking past her and up the spiral staircase again. At the top of the stairs, another wild missed rolling pin swing dings off the iron staircase.

And it's so strange whenever I watch or imagine, the sound of the reverberating metal rings in my head and hurts me like and when my headache worsened, I don't know. I always wonder if there's a name for the phenomenon, how a muted television clapper invades the mind's ear. With one hand on the cart for stabilization, I checked my head with the other. My brain might have jumped out, but it didn't. I must be quite lucky, I thought through the ringing in my ears. From a remembered silent film, oh me.

The rolling pin's impact on the metal bar, perhaps impractically, dislodges the metal staircase from its mooring, and what begins is what most who have ever seen the film

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remember: the spiral staircase becomes a giant, tall spinning top with the scoundrel and the mother still entangled on the stairs and the railing, as the top of the stair precesses and the axis of its spin draws a cone and mother is hanging on for dear life and scoundrel is all acrobatic playing it for humor. The spiral stairs unwind ultimately and straighten out into just normal stairs, dizzy scoundrel at the top step, dizzy mother at the bottom step (rolling pin still in clutch).

Ah yeah, the ending: mother charges up the stairs, so BB as scoundrel slides down the railing right through the wicked dough-dough mother and into the awaiting arms of his beloved, the girl from the beginning. Remember her? Scoundrel and girl peck a kiss, mother arrives and waps Scoundrel on the head. An iris wipe circles around the dazed scoundrel and eclipses him in black. The End. What was the saying about a rolling pin in the first act? Oho! But my gear didn't topple or unwind into a straight staircase, and I was getting better and better at keeping my composure, so much so that the man at the fence of the film shooting location didn't notice anything amiss, even said “Bienvenidos, Balfour.” This was the man in charge of keeping sketchy types out, an accusation that wouldn't have burned me had it been put against me. In fact, the actress Marie Bruxelles (Brux, I had heard her called by others and felt envious of their familiarity) called out my sketchiness a short time later. She was the first person to notice. I had thought she might.

We each had intended to walk past each other, but being caught tightly in the narrow space between a craft tent and some stacked equipment cases, we each ho-hum-hesitated and bumped into the other. It's pretty hard to pretend to be a solid mass of blood and bone all the time, and

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my feet were a little stringy and spreading out. So when she inadvertently stepped on my strings and looked up at me, I sensed she was thinking precisely: Jesus fucking Christ, what happened to you?, a thought her horrified expression would have betrayed anyways, even through her big dark glasses. Since she was stopped and staring, others stopped to stare as well. As a concerned crowd grew around me and stepped on me as my string spread slightly further, I became less interested in maintaining my human makeup and more fascinated by each concern and even more fascinated by the few gnarls of pleasure some had at seeing me bloodied and beaten and dusty and kind of coming apart. Oho! What a sight I must have been. A sight I could see through their eyes and mind's eyes. What a sight I was. I thought it a good idea to assuage them, so I did my best to explain how I had been savagely beaten nearly (give or take) to death by a few unruly youths. Boys will be boys. What was it I said to conclude, oh yes: “But the show must go on!” They were unconvinced.

I acquiesced to the generally kindhearted insistence from the group that I be driven to the hospital, and what a pleasant surprise that Marie Bruxelles (who doesn't love the French? Her, as it turns out...the things you learn!) volunteered to do it even though she had to borrow another crew member's car (I could feel that he was pretty freaked out by my state and didn't want to drive himself, though he felt pride at having helped by providing the vehicle).

Her kindness was a strange kindness; she felt no softness toward me. She was intelligent, maybe even aware of our connection and of her connection with others. At some point her glasses had come off. She watched the road viligantly and, a few times, looked at me, digilant in

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duty. I was happy as a clam. I knew, but she didn't know that a doctor couldn't do me any good.

She didn't know that I had left a little string of me behind in the parking lot or that I was slowly and discretely unraveling as the car moved away from that parking lot. I did my best to smile normally. I couldn't keep my eyes open normally though. She didn't know a doctor was standing on me ways a way back where the tail of my string was. The good doc was thinking to himself: McAllen, Texas highest per capita medical spending in the U.S. Well, damn it all if that doesn't put McAllen, Texas in competition for highest in the world. Next guy comes in with an itchy dick, I ain't giving him a lick of antibiotics. 'Piss it out!' I'll say. Okay, okay, Pascal, be cool. At the very least, I'm running one less test than the next sorry guy or gal asks for. EKG or blood test, your call. What do I think?: You're a human being and you're dying slowly goddamnit.

Pascal was a doctor at the end of his rope. Pascal probably wasn't to be my doctor, since our car had already left Pascal far behind, though I think I might have liked to watch the whitehaired old grouch struggling between his fiery Texasisms and his very reasonable noodle. In all likelihood I would go to a different doctor, who might have ideas and tests. He might be thrilled by the challenge, but I was an exeptional, incurable human case, this a realization coalescing and broadly visual from a seat at the back of my brain. But all doctors have their parts to play, just like Marie Bruxelles who acts for a living and who was kind enough to take me to the doctor who might find a hamstrung hammer-fall tells you more (or less) than just reflexes...talking capital Human condition. I was an incurable human case, but I would let him swing a hammer at wack-amole kneecaps. I looked forward to that cool touch of stethoscope, always a strange and predictable thrill like all those old dumb films.

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BROOKE ELLSWORTH [Mellow Apple Trees]

A serene funnel of noise Spires 00:00 Gender of compassion Nothing is scarier Tradducíon but nothing The director shares an incredible true story about a graphic novel adapted and drawn by me Faith Work with their customers to develop and implement waste management systems on the affected star fish wasting

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[A Tree Stump Named Anne Tells of Pleasure]

Nobody ever really wants to virginize parts of their life like here are the parts with brackets versus no brackets Brackets are heady the more you try to stand out of the way like 1500 pine trees released overhead Where’d the sun go you’d probably ask But I’m here wondering Is this some kind of idiopathy from which all privacies arise Built of enlightenment atomic amazing and drag to work with their customers Dad used to say I say you really don’t rage obviously but just because it’s true that ingénue-unheard-of as we are I hasten to add we do not believe gold can be brought about random locals When fed up with a number of he was nothing more than a conflict His bureau now overall a bunch of fatties serving new—a fool dinner People showed a necklace in her home Greeted retail She realizes something many people do not know crown Crown you are misguided Seduce usefully I’m better than people who die

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ROBERTO MONTES [GRIEVANCES]

My name is Roberto Montes I am BACK Please don’t tell anyone They won’t know what you’re talking about Poets who are interested in culture but not themselves Poets who honestly believe they are responsible for what leaves them lol The bewilderment of men Feeds me More than their bodies When they tip into my open mouth Don’t want to brag but Yes I will die and grow more useful in the earth And those that gather above me Will have gathered in the wrong place My name is Roberto Montes I was raised by straight white children With shitty hair

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But how could you blame them Like this It’s all your fault I asked them Do you believe poetry should have anything to do with it No they responded But I know you do I didn’t Until I saw how frightened they were And from a great distance our names Had shelved us or not Some people I think view art as their life And life as their primary employment I don’t work for life though I don’t work in general When I get the shit kicked out of me It is free and available to stream If scattered I have nothing to lose Except poetry Which cannot be given evenly away But clots the means it opens No I’m not interested in your reading

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You’re going to print all of the internet out Wow You are 100% not political Wow Which is not to say the soapbox is right Only that when it is taken from you Taller ones allow more Wreckage from the fall I think I would make a decent American White people HATE me When I adopt their children A tarp catches their jaw before it pollutes the spring The statue relieves itself in The waters of the gay agenda You know the click I speak of When the bone resigns itself And is forced to listen To children moo at what they don’t understand And 40 minutes later when one of us Is shot dead through the cheek Becomes the village corner We need to avoid I hear an October voice

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Telling me to fuck Is this racist The white boys ask When they grab my butt Really wondering How anyone could be different Or turned like a gasket out To put your mouth around At the party The rich boy Who talked about eyes And having them Licked to get off It feels good, he said Wow Thought he could achieve the same relief Simply giving everything away When you think about it Most of us feel that way all the time Feels good And saddled on But the bewilderment of men Feeds me

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More than their bodies When they tip into my open mouth Have you noticed It cannot be stopped

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JOSH FOMON [excerpts from THOUGH WE BLED METICULOUSLY]

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[excerpts from THOUGH WE BLED METICULOUSLY]

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MADELINE WEISS [Untitled]

my face is the most poetic thing about me I’ll try to keep it down at night my genetic code was a star cracked with big bare teeth one of those things about symmetry, ratios color contrasts and mute fortune ask me what I did my demise a soft resolution a disease that keeps me trim like the edges of a pattern before, a water death perfect utility, a gift sewn | my body is a universe itself coughed moles to navigate by [my paper body in grayscale] my bourgeois exactness will kill me I look to you and to you and you and a body like a formula, everyone you you you happy to keep the origin and the meaning a mystery, looking at just-so the third little bear’s beauty instead

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ELAINE HSIANG [insatiable]

insatiable: you put yourself on my mouth when i am asleep you put your love in my ear when i face the wall you keep telling me in moans i can do nothing with moans i want to nothing with moans wrapped in candle liquor christmas. lights inside my eyeballs i am pressing all of the sweet bread rolls on your neck it gets cheesy on your neck and you have to tell me we are not having a feast but i'm hungry i tell you i'm sorry i say i can't have your body. you have to love me in the glass like everybody else and wonder if i see you like i don't the others when i am greasy crazy you have a sour eye and nothing else you do best than ask me to kiss it better.

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[time]

time: when i look up you are tying bows with the next boy over. when i look down you are tying my shoes. when i look up this is a body on my naked and they are rock hard like diamonds all the time like diamonds i am cut into rather large pieces of butternut toffee. pancakes. you give me lightbulbs where it hurts. you give me handjobs where i can fill your neck with paintings when i tell you oh this is how much i miss you but even that is something i am counting down.

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[naan]

naan: these are all of the winds i am going to please on you. you leave fingerprints down there when april is the wettest rain i am one of these days an evil piece of. deer in the cupboard says i drank from your sippy cup and two nights later you are licking my thousand pound earlobe. i am completing you scream this is important so there goes your v-hood all over my e-hood now you are going to shave my cactus. sometimes i am 86% juice. sometimes i am 100% succulent. i don't know why i haven't wished you a happy birthday but you are irrationally proud of this pleasure.

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RACHEL ZAVECZ [Skeleton Key]

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[Phantom Antler Syndrome]

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JAMISON CRABTREE [excerpts from wolf!!!]

6.

ARE YOU WASHED ARE YOU WASHED The wolf was washt in the blood of the lamb; the lamb was too.

Boy-little stank to high heaven. Had, himself, a way of getting outside of things by dropping into them: he callt this watching.

Such devotion, in forms: all. Theaters prayed to spectacle.

Opera and surgeries and military operations (oh, my). Norma and fat men sang. Boys opened themselves up under strange hands that, when finished, then sewed them shut.

Tanks pinocchioed their respective ways west. It was friday, fridáy, and our friend, Fen-of-fame, is famined and is getting down and downer. So much pérform-ancé! It's impossible, even, to speak without enacting one lie or another (or more).

The clouds pretend at rain and Sis'ér Sun beams knowing that Tod ist ein Wolf als Wolke verkleidet. Translated: relax because today is a nice day.

The understanding's there, but, nevér the details.

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7.

HIROSHIMA, MON AMOUR / SALT CITY, BUDDY For the giggles and the shits, let's elute the imáginings from the boy.

Some stairs snaked (or snook) up into the sea.

Panda bears took to the risen ocean; busied themselves with piracy, bamboo flashed beyond every horizon.

The sun reprimanded the night every few hours and hid offstage, to drive the audience to demand another encore. Automatons got jaded with the late shift; this job is for the vampires!

Sheesh.

Tamaraws and javelinas slept in the same pens.

Tides of leaves shuddert with the coming season.

The papaya of discord. Fantastic, satellites and seeds tript the light with their constant falling.

Cyborgs drank their circuits short.

Pigeons fattened and burst in flight. Feathers, otherwise inexplicable, haunted the afternoons.

The boy wanted to eat the wolf, and the wolf, the boy.

That's all. Washéd and cleanséd: done. What's not there is the boy. The leftover gloop: only (and last) words; and I don't, uh, I don't think I, uh, speak this language.

I, not the boy, built an ocean and a pier on the moon and I never had no intention of making any goddamned ship to dock there. I wanted to see if the earth, reflecting in the magmatic waters, pulled a tide.

Nothing ever sounded toó good to be true. Encore!

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8.

I AM THE ALPHA AND THE BETA, AND THE GAMMA TOO

And whát bad company you are, Br'er Trinitywolf, of the long tooth and tinied tongue.

Tell me a story, says the boy, quietly, of joy.

Warily and wearily, the wolf: Those ears of yours, they are exceptionally big.

The better for you to whisper into (boy-little).

But those arms of yours, they're as thick as a woodcutter's, not a boy's.

How else would I hold this axe?

Roger then, I will coooperate; he began: Salvos announced the coming of Spring!

Eyes bruised blue as delphiniums; it was obvious that the icepick sucker punch was in fashion that season.

Everyone slept with everyone and this made no one, ever, anywhere, feel dévástátéd. Such goodness.

I drove a car too small to fit a single clown and had learned to crochet cozies to get myself in the good graces of the granmammans.

Why are you a wolf?

I hadn't noticed.

What did you wanst to beést, if ne'er a wolf?

A mother. Devoured families just to feel something inside of me kicking with life.

And for that, they cut off your héad?

Yes, I float and sing. More Medusa than Orpheus. More John the Baptist than Pam Voorhees.

We are bad moviés, incomplete and going nowhere.

We are good stories, done and dead.

Why do you want to be a wolf?

How-how-- OH NO, do you

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DREW KALBACH [There’s not a hard return]

Photovoltaic drive by shooting in low income neighborhood: Run-CMD means both “Run Camden” and “Cash, Money, Drugs.”

The unoccupied city, funding pulled, cops scattered.

Scanners in Police cars automatically look up plates.

Best fucking chicken in Camden.

The unoccupied city is on itself.

I’m snapped in photographs or made seized, green with too many leaves.

Crop them out.

In a better version upgrades come slow.

It was like fires, and rain, and babies crying and dogs barking.

It was like Armageddon.

They let us run amok.

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Kid gets his genitals torn in a stop and frisk.

I can follow along but only after hours, only in a typed-out haze.

You’ve gone into the office party. You’ve gone into the snowdrift, into the brushed over rent check, the tree top. The Cathedral follows on your neck inflammatory and illfitting, austere and gilded. The police dropped a bomb on a west Philadelphia residential building and let the people inside burn. Move your ass. There’s not a hard return. Radical reconfiguration of reproductive labor before cultural analysis, before lifestyle choices, before personal faults find stasis in barely-thought theoretical shapes concerning bodies way beyond this scope. Way beyond this scope and marriage contracts. Stood before a congregation to pledge a body in limitless specificity. All the way down, another act.

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[Mesh all the way down]

I equate thinking with typing.

Plastic, aluminum, tightly coiled metal, conductive transistors, channels blocked by water.

Stuck in the representational quarantine, glass flattened for projections through dual-optic plastic goggles.

Synaptic, feedback, I’m on a loop in the middle of a loopless year which means returning through the self, declaring bankruptcy, selling a kidney or two. Divested all my stock in recurring characters, sold it at a loss. Can’t feel my body moving, it’s eager for a singled sense to increase or incense an ounce of emotive effervescence.

Duo, duodenum hacked up phlegm and blood on the tissue in a wet winter.

Black robed robber pushed abyssal fomented high-pressure minting of digitless currency wherein one body is exchanged for a host of lesser bodies.

Head of a turtle with the body of a half turtle half man.

One-upmanship among the oarsmen, row row row me home fast through black ice highways, my lee, my way.

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In backlight, in fill and soon you slip out from behind fabric and want another part.

One act, two rooms filled with wave after wave. Another wall for signal and joystick for glide, joystick for gilt.

Declare me lean.

I can only see death in nature, in grass and trees and long plains toward mountains.

In bits, dots, ingrained in pattern, it spreads and is made up of people. I’m more afraid of vast, flat distances than I am of trojans, spammers, worms, other bits of renegade code, ghosts in whatever machine, ghosts of any kind

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COOP LEE [Ritual]

mom betrays us. headlights into the night & up the breakneck boulevard overlooking town. dead husband\father\corpse. home movies. front porch blood trails forever. she claims self-defense & camera-eyes the local fame, local stepfathers & books & dead dog omens. grandsons conjure grandmaster demons in treeforts. vault & library card access to black ink times new roman to white flat pulp slip. america between the whir of spokes & windshields reflecting skin. television glows boy & hands. leaves fall onto well-capped boxes & custom castles built so neato, so truly loved. the ancient landscape: glorious in its own sparkle & decay. heir\son\brother\body racing car thrust & fluxed & brakes-sabotaged down the boulevard. crash into death & explosion, he is a hot ball of metal . father & son laugh for a minute on the brim of here & death. aberrations unfinished. radioactive retribution: a sequel of the rising son, a corpse, undead. Â

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[an unlabeled video cassette of j. moon’s vacation & burial in mexico] the children watch. daughters screaming at slumber parties, son a ghost returned in shades hungry for pizza & pure vengeance. night terror.

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[The Quarry]

rotting horse carcass. the green filament glowing by moonlight thrust & mistrust us. radioactive drums of waste &/or dreams. boys swimming. fistfights at night by headlight & tooth crackle. (spit) then bonfire pallets thrummed & danced upon. plumes of gas-can outcries. the days & abuelitas, pinched cheek - pinched cooler - grandaddy on the grill. his gasping yellow dogs. judy is in the underbrush with a walkie-talkie & p.b.j. desmond leaping from high rocks; he descends into otherworld by way of molecular-mishap. the portal whore. dove deep. wasps hover above spilt wine & declare war upon brothers with b.b. guns & firecrackers & spf 50+. the saturday/sunday sagas between beams of heat into laughter breakdowns. to knees, to bees. honey. homecoming queen dead & wrapped in plastic. body found with turtle bites. fungi. the slabs of granite. old iron tractors bent & held by tree wives. toast. jam hewn hwedges of crisped bread.

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[Woodwork] like swirling colors. begin at a party. at a school. at a time on the earth with the people and the trees. like swirling oil, of holy alignment. begin as tiny little me/you/each (organic thrust). as children, involved and wearing warm hats. the home stretch is free unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells. boy dunked in the river/ baptized. transformed into horror. (summer slash winter) little brother, little baby orb of water / air / mountains. fish. my son becomes a stoner. he puts a giant-squid on his head & dances the cha-cha. star ghoul & skull of light. bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night. charted. astro logics. goatsblood. & the sacraments of babylon. meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts; towers; blood of men fueling, (consuming) swallowing the dreams of mommy and child. this one god. this, absorption of life force through flesh and war. true god, hidden in the spark of heart and matter. the spark of divine young love.

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CHANELLE A. BERGERON [yesod in atziluth] i have eaten something ancient in your absence like a spider suspended between sheaths of swamp grass, i wait & watch the clouds fastening bulges of thunder there are mountains in the distance & my hands are covered in blisters they burn like shards of sun spit as i press into the frost i spent a whole day tracing the lips on a single stalk of amaranth before plucking it to place upon your carcass already becoming fodder for the animals & the bone hungry stars who lick their teeth at your arrival my back is bent in the shape of your torso

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having carried it across the chords of limitation to the edge of infinity to where infinity drops to its knees & begs for a bowl of water having offered what was left of you to the altar of the sky

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[chesed in briah]

our hands in the sunlight they move through the air they collide we stand on this ground that silently is moving us aging us weaving us the ground that we stand on is made of mica & the smells of sleep & softness of that which has decomposed: catkins, hull of the woodlice, sesamoid bone of a mole every day is a field & our skin is a field & the sky is a field smattered with the burn of citrine hoof prints in the dark & like the fallen log under where a circle of chanterelles have clustered i have become protective of your freckles those mycorrhizal moments mapped atop your nose we arch, we create a lune mammalian medicine do you believe in this? our hands in the afternoon they move through the air they collide

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[hod of yetzirah] i want to tell you about our lungs before there was air how we used to breathe we were the sea we were the sea salt-fed from our mothers we were a lake we were a lake spring-fed from beneath & we were all blue blue as the sky turned in on itself we drank in what we breathed & we breathed in urine, urine, cells, & shed skin we became a shrine to formation: eyelashes & the backs of knees, the creases on a pinky, symmetry of toes, symmetry of palms, symmetry of you unbinding in the dark becoming a form able to breathe the musk of a brassicaceae able to breathe the smell of the skin of me able to breathe the light leaking from the stars becoming amniotic remnants able to kiss the horizon incubating in the arms of another Â

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REBECCA LOUDON [Dear Tom Cruise’s Weird Teeth]

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[flicking the cage]

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GARY J. SHIPLEY & RAUAN KLASSNIK [More Deformed Cities]

i should just go into the wilderness for a year or two and write about birds, grass, stars and shit yes… into the wilds, eating my sentence, watching the birds watching me starve the birds are starving me from the inside out i'll ingest their wings and throw my stomach to the sky birds love real atheists ... it's like pure cannibalism God eats himself so he can believe in nonbelievers God's a grandma watching sex snooker while imagining she's a hen laying balls of her own blood balls of blood that hatch into Florida, Las Vegas, Atlantic City & a dwarf w/ a slight limp he asks if he can shrink to fit the names of more deformed cities you can't ever be deformed enough the wilderness is a conurbation with a gammy leg the wilderness knows i am a real fucking pig, and apples my mouth, over and over i let myself get frosted by all the men dressed as trees

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[Sucked in the Mantid Party]

like killing it’s hard to stop like an irritable bowel with knives and duct tape your industrial vision pours concrete over my sad monkey trees but they’re so forgiving, the unbaptised, the new four-legged drivers forgiveness treads sour in my mouth still praying yeah a crushed, glowing & praying atheist a mantid can charm God into blessing his child-killing mothers ah, i sucked in the mantid party! but they pray so nice like dead women pushing prams we're all dead women clutching our warehouses full of dead eggs each one’s a tiny soul filled to the top with tarmac every morning the chicken asks: what else can i fuck? but nobody hears, because it's wrapped in cellophane and doesn't have a head it's a God at the writer's convention pissing on all the elves urine's the finest fake tan around

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LEORA FRIDMAN

[5 poems from COOKING FOR THE ACCIDENT] Members of the U.S. house & the U.S. Senate are not there by accident. Each managed to get there for some reason. Learn what it was & you will know something important about them, about our country & about the American people.

-Donald Rumsfeld

What would you call it if it were really an accident? The management grows. We begin to manage the accident for the people who like to see.

We look around for the accident. We are not the ones who like to see, we tell ourselves, but we will stand by reason. We will stand by people who need to know what it is about. The American people ignore us. They want to hear from the accident. The American people are demanding a press conference from the accident.

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The accident has had a tough time with its car this year. Everything keeps going wrong. It is ten, maybe eleven years old, & every few days another light is going off on the dashboard. The American people are getting impatient waiting for the accident, but this time the accident has not meant to be late. The accident manages to pull up at late & pulls me behind him. This country is my country, too, begins the accident, & none of us should have to stand & wait for anything to happen, the accident motions for their cheers, reason is important to us all.

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What reason could the accident possibly give for not letting me ride along?

I am the best lady, if any, to keep the accident safe. I’ve never told anyone how strong my hands are. I have all my organs in an order that no one notices at all. I would be his driver if he let me - I would pat down his seat.

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He calls it the specialized art of the appraisal. This is when he comes to see. I trail him around the accident, hoping something will come to light. This is the first time I’ve seen someone watch this way. He doesn’t make notes though I know he will divide fact from fact cleanly when he gets home. He can already tell the way the accident drives. Many times I’ve come upon a lady sitting atop a car & she has not been afraid of leaving the accident: She has had her own body on the trunk, two legs busy & recorded.

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I also told the accident I wanted to be human. “What kind of human, did you say?” I don’t like to tell the accident any types or leave it any room to find me in the DMV line. The accident will not hesitate to bundle up & search. The accident knows about everyone’s clothing & what it can or can’t do. This belt is just a trickle to the accident.

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CONTRIBUTORS

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[DELUGE ISSUE THREE]

CHANELLE A. BERGERON has been studying midwifery & water memory for the past two years in rural maine. she is about to move to the deep south to be closer to the spanish moss but is terrified of the heat. she loves hurricane-weather, moon-light, & autumn-time. to reach her about poetry, plant medicine, collages, or counsel, you can do so here: quareria@riseup.net JACE BRITTAIN is an MFA candidate at the University of Notre Dame. “Shortcomings and goings” was inspired in fits and parts by Beckett’s immobile heroes and the assiduous energy of David Byrne’s immortal soul.

JAMISON CRABTREE‘s first book, rel[am]ent, was awarded the Word Works’ Washington Prize and will be published in the spring of 2015. Other poems from “WOLF!!!" can be found in recent issues of Whiskey Island, The Destroyer, Smoking Glue Gun, Printer’s Devil Review, and Hobart.

BROOKE ELLSWORTH is the author of the chapbook, Thrown (The New Megaphone, 2014). Her poems are forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Gobbet, Artifice, Likewise Folio, The Volta, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Queens and works on Parsons.

JOSH FOMON edits the art journal Depaser with Colin Post and Burke Jam, has edited CutBank, and founded CutBank Books. His poems appear in Caketrain, alice blue review, pallaksch. pallaksch., Ilk, Phoebe, and iO: A Journal of New American Poetry. He recently moved to Seattle.

LEORA FRIDMAN is the author of Precious Coast (H_ngm_n B_ _ks), Obvious Metals (Projective Industries), On the architecture and Essential Nature (The New Megaphone), and Eduardo Milán: Poems (Toad Press). With Kelin Loe, she edits Spoke Too Soon: A Journal of the Longer.

ELAINE HSIANG grieves over things like trees and fingernail clippings. Her work has been (or will soon be) featured in zines such as Clerestory, On the Cusp, Artichoke Haircut, if&when, SP CE, Saudades Literary Journal, and Skydeer Helpking. She has one e-chap forthcoming in September 2014 by pizza pi press titled one day i will be louder than all the bruises on your knees, as well as a self-released e-chap that will be posted to her blog sometime whenever she comes around to it. She lives in Providence, RI.

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DREW KALBACH is from Philadelphia. He is the author of Spooky Plan (Gobbet 2014).

His website is www.drewkalbach.com.

RAUAN KLASSNIK lives in a suburb of Seattle. He is the author of Sky Rat (Spork Press), Holy Land, and The Moon’s Jaw (both by Black Ocean).

GINGER KO writes from Wyoming. Her poetry collection MOTHERLOVER is forthcoming from Coconut Books.

COOP LEE is a writer and an artist. He is packing his things up and moving to Oregon.

The beaver state. The green state. The state of mind to spirit away and get lost for awhile.

REBECCA LOUDON is the author of three collections of poetry, Tarantella, Radish King, and Cadaver Dogs. She lives and writes in Seattle where she is a professional musician who teaches violin lessons to children.

MONICA MCCLURE’s debut poetry collection, Tender Data, will be published by Birds, LLC in 2015. She is the author of the chapbooks, Mood Swing, from Snacks Press and Mala, published by Poor Claudia. Her poems and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in Tin House, Jubilat, Fence, The Los Angeles Review, The Lit Review, Lambda Literary Review’s Spotlight Series, The Awl, Spork, Intercourse, CultureStrike and elsewhere. She co-curates Gemstones, a girls-mostly collaboration series of new media artists and poets. She has performed at Cage Gallery & Pioneer Works. With Brenda Shaughnessy, she edited the anthology Both and Neither; Biracial Writers in America.

ROBERTO MONTES is the author of I DON'T KNOW DO YOU (Ampersand Books, 14) and 'HOW TO BE SINCERE IN YOUR POETRY' WORKSHOP now available in full at napuniversityonline.com. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Coconut Magazine, Everyday Genius, Apogee Journal, Nepantla, & elsewhere.

SADE MURPHY is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame, where she studied Theology and Studio Art. Her poems have been published by Action, Yes, joINT, Revolver, and LIT. She currently lives and works as an artist in South Bend, IN. COLIN POST was born and raised in Grand Rapids, MI. He has lived in Pittsburgh, PA and Missoula, MT. Currently, he is in training to become an archivist at the University of North Carolina.

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GARY J. SHIPLEY is the author of various books, including the forthcoming Gumma Homo (Blue Square). He has published in Gargoyle, The Black Herald, PLINTH, nthposition, Paragraphiti, and others. More details can be found at Thek Prosthetics.

ED STECK is a writer. The Center for Ongoing Research and Projects published sleep as information/the fountain is a water feature in 2014. Ugly Duckling Presse published The Garden: Synthetic Environment for Analysis and Simulation in 2013. He frequently collaborates with David Horvitz. He graduated from Bard College’s Milton Avery Graduate School of the Arts.

KIM VODICKA is the author of Aesthesia Balderdash (Trembling Pillow 2012). She holds an MFA in creative writing from Louisiana State University (2013). Her artwork has been published in TENDE RLOIN, and her poems have been published in Shampoo, Ekleksographia, Dig, Spork, Unlikely Stories, RealPoetik, Cloudheavy Zine, TheThe Poetry, Finery, Women Poets Wearing Sweatpants, Epiphany, Industrial Lunch, Salt, Moss Trill, Smoking Glue Gun, and Luna Luna Magazine. Her manuscript, Psychic Privates, was a 2014 Braddock Prize semifinalist.

MADELINE WEISS lives and rusts with Pittsburgh. She has work appearing in H_NGM_N, Skydeer Helpking, and elsewhere.

RACHEL ZAVECZ is currently an MFA of poetry at the University of Notre Dame. She is working on a multitude of projects including an infected retelling of the “Six Swans” fairy tale, entitled SIX, and an apocalyptic hybrid poetry-play entitled RAT KING. Likes: emojis, J-Pop & things that are robots. Dislikes: drowning & the color yellow. She is a finalist for the 2014 Fairy Tale Review Poetry Award.

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Lorem Ipsum Dolor [Street Address] [City], [State][Postal Code] [Web Address]