you hear laurel I hear yanny you hear vinyl I hear caliper you hear sodom I hear I hate your best friend more than you hate my best friend you hear breeding ground I hear dumbell you hear sodden I hear danube you hear liminal I hear plug it you hear pencil I hear number hell you hear […]
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My ancestors never came close to the city. Their graves are on coastlines and in open fields, their last breaths were not in flats but in the mountains and out on the open sea. The first of my family to die here was my father, a man who longed for the country, where he […]
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• There is uproar at the back// of this poem //which = i am a roaring chariot//= there is a tragedy// in this prologue // •• This story begins from a place of bloodlustgave my body to a butterfly or she gave// her body to me// an agreement sparkled with a matchstick// affection first prayed […]
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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 […]
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Emily Rose Lavrador December 24th We would wait to put up stockings Until all cake had been eaten Because it was her birthday first I would kneel on scraped knees And hear my cousin talk of color, strength, volume Peel up the skin of his wiser words and drape the film over the cantankerous crab […]
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bass boomin shhhhhrrrrrrttt soft tires on pavement chhht, a layered clap & snare from behind me breaths of a nigga behind me, getting closer exhaling to my right off footsteps in the grass & dirt, & one sharp scuff from me sidestepping a stroller steel lock & chain aluminum fencing soft screechin the pressure of […]
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dedicated to S.B. and L.D. you are my favorite aching summer rainstorm: dewdrop fingers, sugarcane mouth, the valley flooding sweet and deep. you sing all the salt from the sea of my skin. us, our tangled driftwood bodies, merging river limbs flowing home, home, home. Adira Bennett (pseudonym of E.K.) is an artist, writer, and […]
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you are always searching for yourself in every reflective surface. now turn and face it. the absence of what you haunted, late at night when you hoped he slept like a petal, a cast off shade moved from room to room. running your hand over every door. you want to be a blessing but you’ve […]
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The box of dry Frosted Flakes at 4 AM is not the first indignity. All night we are chained together, a line of delinquent ducklings going in and out of cages, pressing fingers on the glass, reciting our numbers, staring at the camera. Guards bark: Face forward. Turn to the side. Don’t smile. Toward morning, someone calls my […]
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I dusted my father’s old Bose CD-player. It was once white but now it has yellowed like tintype. Do you remember seeing ads for these blocks on the back of PARADE magazines that came with the Sunday paper? No? I guess your family only subscribed to commercial-free periodicals and only listened to jazz. You did […]
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Where are you from? Columbus, OH What are your hobbies? I’m usually creating something, photography, dance, and I’m always up for trying something new! What kind of dance have you done? I did Jazz and lyrical in high school and then I choreographed in an organization called Ayo at Cedarville University. When did you start […]
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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 […]
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There really is no good time to tell your mother you’ve never liked boys. Closets do not relinquish their grips easily but I have always instinctively hated dresses. So when my mother asked me about boyfriends again as we wrenched the tails from luscious prawns and cracked their shells with our teeth, I offered the […]
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I am thawed. Deep in winter, I am warm for Emily & she knows that. The sky stays stark & she knows that as well. I am thawed & I still invite her to walk across me. She prefers the shore most days. I can only be the lake & most of my invitations aren’t […]
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your name tastes like the ocean in my mouth the highest arch of green smoothed by sun then white foam fizzing out snapping bubbles kiss my ankles you go on for miles if I think about you and nothing else I can taste you whenever I want my lungs s […]
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my twin, my twitch – prettily you demonstrate your lazy eye the rococo latticework of your scapula – you are most beautiful in braille my hammock, my summer my opium glitch, my tambourine din i’ve been cat-tongued in places you have never lived in tantrums you have never nursed you are killing me to death […]
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Sometimes I suspect I am nothing but a hotel. My mother stays in my lips. My father sleeps in my eyes. My last lover stumbles around With my flowery bathrobe flung on. Yes, there are guests lurking In every floor of this high rise, Even the uninvited ones. My ex-husband twists around my intestines. His […]
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August presses against me like something thick and heavy, sweet perfume clinging to air swollen with humidity. Thunder roiling in clouds like wet wool, apricots ripening and rotting in a blue bowl on the kitchen counter. A shimmering haze, thick enough to taste like herbs on your tongue, with bones weighty and bruised like thudding […]
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I am supposed to be drunk. I am supposed to be a frat boy/super fly/machismo extraordinaire. I am supposed to be flirty, confident, and sexy especially after four shots of tequila. I no longer want to perform this pantomime of bodily aggression. I no longer want the world to be a stage on which I […]
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if i close my eyes and imagine something warmer than this 30 degree weather, something closer to my family than just being in the same city, with memories more tangible than pictures, i imagine ramen. walking back from my last class, all i can think of is a bowl of steaming noodles, eggs, and chopped […]
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polka dot thunderstorm red convertible we curb parked by the graveyard to laugh at the phallic shadows of cement why not go drink a bottle of red wine on gravel patios just to sit under string lights & feel consumed Chris Barton‘s work has appeared in Hobart, Potluck, Funhouse, Metatron, & elsewhere. He makes lattes […]
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evening played the radio soft, soft as daffodil blinking. we rocked in the solace of rosy oven lights the steps to our dance shook magnets within our bodies cold metal pushing us up against each other the vibration of our collision ran over the counter filled the bread box and our shoes. flooding without much […]
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Months of miles back on the diving end of the highway with the slow jam of July sizzling out. Lost: home. The memory lasts and lasts. Traded one black hole for another cavern: sidewalks, soda pop, polka dots, crushed nips – cracked and waning underneath the squeak and scroll of an antique strut. Phone cradles […]
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low sugar draining her cryptic stare a quiet slumber swallows her face drooping over half eaten rice and beans lips parting warmth needing air grandpa slides the window open dripping soured unease wind unveils my fate tenderly a prophecy rooted in her silence you will remember the taste of mangoes but not the sight of the […]
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I have these memories my mother & I bleary eyed in your southern kitchen, the cicadas chorus as you offer us toast waking us jet-lagged already dressed in your coffin, that bathrobe. I don’t know if it was really there then but I dress you in it every time you are alive in my head […]
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Hands sticky from whiskey I almost drink my paint water Reminding me of another shitty attempt at art On my part Art confuses me I went to the Guggenheim Museum And saw some boring Agnes Martin paintings Just lines and dull colours I left the museum feeling dumb and naive Wondering if I can make […]
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How do your surroundings influence your style and practice? I’ve been very lucky to live in some super inspiring cities over the years. Bristol, Berlin, Belfast (I only seem to live in cities beginning with B) Each city has had an amazing illustration community to connect with. Feeling part of something like that really helps […]
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The first of these is the NAIL FILE, the very one Grandmother Virginia took across the ocean with her from Puerto Rico to New York, to her aunt in the candy shop with striped windows. Virginia wouldn’t finish high school until she was in her fifties, but she knew how to raise the file two […]
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SET THE STAGE: the Drowning Children + me in a habitat of natural childhood: THE J PAUL GETTY MUSEUM, where models stand pinned in glitzy dead butterflies, wings spread, a graveyard of history. We are young, and the net age between us and the statues could cradle our grandparents in its palms. We are young, […]
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scrolling trees hit mirror light purple in the […]
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Mostly you saw him from beyond the reach of a tempered glass screen, his large hands stretched across the dashboard like the skin of an animal drawn tight. Years after your arrival you christened her birthplace the Texas of the UK: caravans clattering the flatlands like limbs, dawn a dream caught between sleep and waking, […]
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think about your body, is it in the room? enter your body, leave it in front of their eyes. introduce yourself, prepare them for loss. remind them, failure is radical. forget them, introduce yourself to loss. Leave. remember that your quivering is only a bow string. […]
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a glass of wine under starlight. well not starlight but LED feels the same. a glass of wine tastes like rubbing alcohol. i don’t tell you. i swallow. cheers. we are growing. glowing. how many years older are we. enough to pour out our insides and realize we’re in your house. house not bedroom. you […]
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when i move to the city you do not follow the subway goes by and sometimes i catch the smell of newly cut grass the only bars i go to are ones you went to in 1997 the only heartbeat that shadows mine is yours here is a broken glass here is a phone call […]
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I’m thinking about how every time I do it it never feels like anything how A1 sauce is good with fries and the nothingness of a body I’m inside now and i’m sitting and clicking And reading and forgetting A memory is everything, a pressure cooker rings two-thousand warnings and my torso is a radio […]
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when I drive I often think in fiction but this type of fiction isn’t twist-tied up with a pink bow it doesn’t smile at wild monkeys chomping on buttercups in fact it’s never seen a horse, sheep, goat, llama, or monkey voluntarily consume buttercups it’s disgruntled fiction that can tip […]
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thin light unraveled you. as the snow fell on the train tracks, i stood in close opening and gently pressed cheek to ground so i could hear your breathing and the boy moving from one full room to the other while chasing his friend up the staircase – a body that flitted like moon phases […]
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Nicole Lane: Where are you from? When did you begin illustrating? Nanna Prieler : I was born in a small, idyllic village in the mountains of southern Austria. Growing up in this traditional kind of fairytale world made me a very romantic person who has been obsessed with drawing ever since. I went away to an art […]
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things i wish i could tell my father i. stop haunting my dreams. i don’t want you there because it feels so comfortable when you’re around and i hate being comfortable around something you did. ii. why did you do that to my sisters but never me? why was i so different? iii. all my […]
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i never could taste the bitterness of decaf coffee until the barista at the cafe on the first floor of the MSU library handed me a cup with the word “ma’am” attached to it, and now every sip of every coffee i take fills my teeth with grounds that taste nothing of the robust heartiness […]
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A few missed payments and see what happens The Repo Man takes you away from that bar on Melrose where you sang with abandon. Country songs. Old jazz. Your movies were pure. You, yourself, were you. What will the stone say? Maybe, “I come from a broken home and I realize it’s the rule rather than […]
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I tag every piece of you I can see and not see when I run out of ink, I prick out my own warm blood. you grin and I dabble myself all over your boxed life, stain your breath and call it my breath, smudge your memories and name them my memories. I say isn’t it so wonderful to be […]
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because i can spread my fingers to reach her southern skies stop reaching, i think bloom sweet in the space of my ribs like spicy flowers in the night amidst a summer’s mist hold me tight no, tighter like the black breeze wetting our windows make fire lick my cheek in exchange for little sweet tastes […]
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Emptiness encased in skies that flutter like fleeting fissures of light through crystal, piercing into me I told myself that cities are built of bricks and stone and concrete poured into holes in the earth, ugly forms of symmetry painted over and over and over and over again until our eyes can glimpse at its […]
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there are the things you can touch and prove like when your tongue goes raw after eating two bags of salt and vinegar chips or when you accidentally bite into a jalapeño chunk you didn’t know was in your queso and reach for your soda but it only makes it all much, much worse there […]
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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 […]
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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 […]
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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 […]
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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 […]
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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. […]
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