Somewhere on the blue felted seat of the S7 line I had lost it. The little orange duck. It was a wind-up toy my father had bought me on a business trip just a few weeks ago. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, and when I turned the key nestled behind the […]
Read more
Water When my mother tried to take me to swimming classes all I did was hold back tears and let them go under the water where it was warm and blurry. The tears burned, or maybe that was chlorine. I hated feeling the cold on my knees when I was tucked up against the wall, […]
Read more
If I could smoke fear away I’d roll that motherfucker up. -Kendrick Lamar More than a year and a half after my last sip of alcohol, I still get nightmares about drinking again. And they are nightmares, despite the scene being only in my little kitchen, me standing at the sink, swirling my icy glass […]
Read more
I am a Sarah Lawrence girl who loves Sarah Lawrence girls. Many of us do– we love to love each other. Staring over sociology books, all of us in love with whoever we find looking back. We keep secrets under a cherry blossom tree that’s no longer there. We huddle under the sculpture rumored to […]
Read more
Purple and sun-worn, supple and tired, you hold me on the couch in my parents’ living room. Where I cry into the space between your breasts and mine. Half-asleep, I pat your chest to shape a pillow. You belly laugh yellow into the overcast. We drive across the midwest, eat steaks marked by signs that […]
Read more
where she sits on the front steps of the nyc townhouse i will own someday and spouts nonsense, says do your science homework, sweetie. says what matters more, what you say to yourself when you lose or what you say to yourself when you win? repeats c’est la vie. c’estlaviec’estlaviec’estlavie until my ears bleed so […]
Read more
Sometimes I wish there was some kind of unit with which to measure change. At one point, I tried to measure change in habits – in the things that carved my days into shape, in the catchphrases I used, and so on. This method worked for about a week until I realised that it didn’t […]
Read more
They say insanity is defined by doing the same thing and expecting different results. An ex once left this line in my voicemail box. This was back when we still referred to them as mailboxes. Most of my first boyfriends were poets because, well, I was also a poet. To be honest, I don’t think […]
Read more
How easy it is to forget. You’re in the therapist’s waiting room, the hospital, the throes of a panic attack—and then you’re not. The nurse calls you in and the doctor sees you out; the darkness lifts and the sun begins to shine. These are just things that happen in passing, and reality has no […]
Read more
You work in so many different mediums. Do you have a favorite that you focus on more than others? Honestly, I can’t choose a favorite. I think different fragments — memories, emotions, ideas — demand different forms of representation. I enjoy allowing myself the freedom to play with as many different mediums as I […]
Read more
Time and its contradictions. Wasted time. Its dreaded passing. How can I use or save it more efficiently? Time preservationist. The soft rotted time of forest floors. Photographs and boxes of mementos. Everything is time-sensitive. I am time sensitive. One night during the first few weeks of my current relationship our watches sat side by […]
Read more
i. your american mother will unintentionally white-wash you. when orientation for kindergarten begins, her first instinct will be to put a little ‘x’ in the box marked ‘white’ for your ethnicity because her translucent skin burns in the sun, and she forgets that yours tans. when your father weaves stories of el chupcacabra and la […]
Read more
Katie: One of my favorite things about your work is how experimental and intentional you are with different forms. The visual aspect of your poems is always a striking element of the individual pieces, and the way they build on each other is so strong in your suites. How do you approach a piece? How does form happen […]
Read more
Jessie Knoles: i think the first thing i read of yours was when you submitted some poems to hobart and i got to read them and accept (!!!) them to the site. i really loved those poems [http://www.hobartpulp.com/web_features/mall-of-america]. how long have you been writing for? Francesca Kritikos: First of all, thanks so much for accepting […]
Read more
You may stumble upon Alain Ginsberg if you’re trying to find Allen Ginsberg, but there’s no need to be disappointed by this poet mix-up. Alain’s writing is a melancholy autobiography of what it means to not only survive, but also to live, and how hard it can be for queer individuals to do the bare […]
Read more
I had the honor of sitting down with Shey Rivera at AS220 in Providence, Rhode Island to discuss her work as a poet, artist, curator, and director. You can read or listen below! Katie Clark: So I’m just going to start off by reading a few lines of your bio: Shey is the […]
Read more
Can you talk about your background? How did you first get into illustration? I got into illustration as a kid, despite the fact that I went to an art school that was quite traditional and somehow uptight, I became interested thanks to the school library. I didn’t felt so interested in reproducing the great masters. […]
Read more
My Own Private Idaho: Tuesday night at the New Beverly Cinema. Five-dollar double feature, don’t remember the second one. Gummy seats, sticky floor and nobody there but us (and the) creeps. You, in love with the girl who stood you up: The thrift shop dress and vintage nickname. Me, last minute sub, extra ticket— Footwork […]
Read more
The West Oakland train stop; defunct and tagged standing sentry between a collapsed overpass and a neighborhood gone to shit. You hopped the chain-link easily and breezed across the hill and dale of broken concrete, the stubborn flora crowding up and in between; moving earth like tiny fault lines, smashing plates together, splicing ground to […]
Read more
When did you first begin painting? I first fell in love with painting after my parents took me to a van Gogh exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston when I was seven. Looking up at the thick colorful swirls of paint on his canvases—I was hooked. I wanted to make my own […]
Read more
The post-Halloween wind comes in, bearing its chill and a raspy cigarette-torn voice. I feel its brush against the branches of our uselessly thin trees, hear its rough attempt at a tune. It has been years now since your death and you have remained silent. Only my own melodramatic mind can believe this voice is […]
Read more
Trigger warning: child sexual abuse, homophobia Age 12: Their parents give them a promise ring inscribed with “True Love Waits,” to be worn on the ring finger until replaced by a marriage band. They wear it daily for a couple of years before forgetting about it in the back of a drawer only to find it […]
Read more
Can you talk about your interest in figures? Well, as most of my illustrations are about an experience I have had, I usually draw human forms to visualize an protagonist of the story I am trying to tell. My inspirations are sometimes friends, strangers or even figures from movies. I think in middle eastern countries […]
Read more
The pink floor lamp was flickering behind my ear, the dirt was making terrains for summer ants on the plastic strips that we got from Ikea to cover the life-size window behind your couch, also from Ikea. There were stains of old, dried acrylics visible on various parts of your beat up couch from the […]
Read more
Olivia Gatwood has been calling bullshit and educating through poetry for years now. She is a touring poet and educator, offering workshops on Title IX compliance, community building, and creative writing. Her first collection, New American Best Friend, was released in March. The work explores girlhood and memory, class and sexuality, place-making within and […]
Read more
Where are you from? When did you begin making work? I used to live on the beach in Pacific Palisades, CA but will be relocating to Seattle in a month. Drastic change. I’ve been making art my whole life but I only started making it with serious intent in 2011. From that point, I only […]
Read more
This is a story Hector told about someone he went to boot camp with: there was a guy Hector went to boot camp with who was an idiot. One time when they were lining up for inspection, this guy got yelled at because he had put his pants on backwards. He zipped them up and […]
Read more
What makes you want to create? Many things inspire me. I am rather sensitive by nature. Breathing makes me want to create. Observing the world around me. I have a line in a poem that says “my reason for writing is that the universe is incessantly inspiring me.” It’s who I am. I’m a creator. […]
Read more
JR Mahung’s literary creation, “Like Waters,” is both a tidal force and a gentle flow. It is teaching someone how to dance and not caring if they step on your feet, just wanting to twirl in some comfortable space with them. It is a lesson that if you keep searching for perfection, you’ll miss all […]
Read more
Born in Canada and bred in the U.S., Allen Forrest has worked in many mediums: computer graphics, writing, theater, digital music, film, video, drawing and painting. Allen studied acting in the Columbia Pictures Talent Program in Los Angeles and digital media in art and design at Bellevue College (receiving degrees in Web Multimedia Authoring and […]
Read more
Can you talk about the piece, “Chiquita” in particular and how this still life touches on themes of exotification and sexualization? At first glance, Chiquita, seems like a classical European style still life with fruits and a decorative floral pattern. However, considered alongside “Not exotic (not your forbidden fruit)” it begins to take on a […]
Read more
Taylor Steele is a rare triple-Taurus. She’s a triple threat too—poet, screenwriter, and essayist—and it seems there’s very little that isn’t in her wheelhouse. You’ll find this is true almost instantly upon cracking Dirty. Mouth. Kiss. open. This is a collection of poems that roots for protection of the self, that’s wrought with newfound […]
Read more
Inspired by a consuming crush, Shy Watson follows her first book (“Away Status,” previously reviewed!) with the equally stunning “My Parents Were Going to Give Me Your Name If I Was Born a Boy.” This short collection of poems, written in a single season, depict what it is like to want and not be wanted, […]
Read more
“I’m feeling apocalyptic,” I tell them. They know this word to mean the apocalypse. The end of us all. But they don’t know what I mean when I say I feel apocalyptic. It’s a mood, a feeling, a place I go when I try to imagine tomorrow and am not sure it will come. When I try […]
Read more
Dear David, To begin, I want to say that I forgive you. I forgive you for not calling. I harbor no resentment that the only tangible remuneration I got for sucking on your cock was a slightly salty aftertaste and waves of queasiness for the next few hours. In fact…and, I know this is going […]
Read more
How long have you been writing for? Do you have a specific writing process? I’ve been writing for a while, but writing seriously for less than a while—I’m not sure what initially drew me to poetry. I think I was just kind of struck by this idea that nearly everything that exists is poetry. I’m […]
Read more
How would you describe your style? It’s kind of hard to describe. I almost think I don’t have a style. I’m not very good at stylizing or idealizing during my drawing, so I end up just drawing the subject very simply and precisely. I think I referred to my style as “instruction manual drawings” before, […]
Read more
PART ONE I watch the hand holding a gun of needles against the flesh of my arm, the points racing across my skin, depositing ink below my epidermis. The omnipresent buzzing is the sound of anticipation, all-encompassing like the noise is originating inside my skull itself. Tattoos are, fundamentally, a religious experience for me. To […]
Read more
I close my eyes and I see grapes. I lay my hands at my sides and my fingers come together as if to pinch at invisible stems. I count the bunches as I fall asleep… It is cold morning. I plod down rows that tumble over landscapes for miles and miles and miles. I look […]
Read more
VAGABOND CITY 