Ataraxia
Vol. 2 • Feb/201 4
selected literature with illustrations
So
by Franklin K.R. Cline So: winter, no further summer echo, barely sun. So: inside, lost remotes, house slippers, sweatpants. So: fake warmth, thickness. So: false comfort, where’s the sky, where did my mouth go oh here under the scarf, steamy drinks, burnt lips. So: irascible, carols down the block, little red and green lights make blinks at our cold and tired eyes. So: around the house we get quieter, and the meat we started to cook gets forgotten, burnt. So: smoke. So: fire. So: we could not eat, that was all we had. So: hunger, we learnt nothing. So: soon spring’s green splash across our lawn, springing up from the snow. So now dour.
i hate everything except the things that i love / i love everything except the things that i hate by alex wennerberg
call your friends i am alive, i am on instagram, my head is a soft head, when i close my eyes you are semen-colored, in psychology we read about classical conditioning tik tak we read about classical conditioning, in spite of myself you are beautiful, i chew my nails you are offline because you do not exist you are beautiful because i do not know beautiful things, how do these systems work you are beautiful, no, i am in a six room apartment if you count bathrooms, my desk has six quarters on it (new mexico, texas, ohio, 3x eagle), my hands have, no, it is three a.m. there are six people on facebook, one two three one two three four five six one two three one two three four five six you are not online on facebook you are beautiful
i do not know what to say, my fingernails are the republican party, no, my eyes strike a tiny puddle, the snow is melted, i see in it a small tree, you are a small tree you are beautiful the tree has no leaves it is winter you are above my head an airplane, you are a steak knife cutting the snow-melting silent sky, you are something i forgot, my head is a soft kitten i draw you on a post it note, the post it note is blank, i think it is good
180.
by Grace Thorton Noise, noise, noising the world fills it with hum, drowns out the not-silence of static. A noiseless brain is not at rest. It is sending satellite signals into space, saying “Oh gawd. Halp.� Help me dissolve this, this, into a murmurous growl low enough to rumble animals. Kick in their instincts so refined they can almost smell with their joints. Help me take flight, and for those without the gift of birdness, help them fight. There was once a call I could not hear. Then the tides came and the rains fell and Touch was the sound. Water touched my toes. Wind clutched my hair. I do not speak. I pet. Calves nuzzle my ass looking for milk. Ass, udders, tits, stomach, softnesses that might keep my feet tucked up against someone
else’s at night. Remember, how warm the womb was? How fucking Emily was cozy as crawling back in it? Pleading her clit with the tip of a nose for the feel of the hair, not the scent of her snatch, I was subdued. A mouthful of silence. A body rhythmic.
217
by Harrison Parks All we want are stories. It's all we've ever wanted. It doesn't matter where the hero goes, As long as we are there, To recognize a little bit of You in I and I in you -To reverberate, to harmonize, to reach an equilibrium... And die, knowing that when our oscillations met -They soared in step.
UNTITLED
by Low Man Destruction is temporary but, how big? Pull it apart take it on a tour UPDATE TIME Tourism arises from popularity perhaps, it is a double edged sword perhaps it has no edge Silence offers to teach you to think without words. Pass it around keep it under control. Consider it beautiful. Live among the many dedicated to a lie
Stronger and bolder in a bright pink folder Labled: 201 3 Some say worth the price of admission: Some say excessive: Some say Underdeveloped: but, none the less, it sets you on the edge of your seat it makes your teeth sharper.
40 Hours
by Chris Drew is destiny to wake up at same time every week day and eat lunch at same time too and never have that empty afternoon feeling of the 3 o'clock beautiful sun and so is weary woe me and so but no more rolling in noon bed either killing blow shown own little guts over it and no listless sitting on porch or finding empty croquette yard or riding bikes and so is weary me pent
Ataraxia is a monthly zine organized, edited, and printed by rasasvada. We publish various projects online and in limited paper copies. Find more poems, stories, articles, art and info about submitting your own work at rasasvada.net.
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