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UPROOT, as a creative entity and as an extension of me as both a person and as an artist, originated from this insecurity and anxiety of not being good enough. UPROOT stemmed from being desperate and obsessed with the validation that came from paying $65 to have a university say ‘gosh darn you can’t spend some outrageous five-figure sum on a liberal arts education’. it has, however, over the past year grown into a means of self-confidence and overarching self-expression and self-appreciation. thank you


UPROOT est. Winter 2015

much -din

dedicated to Alex Ponce Ryn Weaver Dude Who Called Me “Bird Beak” On Twitter


it’s fun to do handstands in our dresses and throw up in my mother’s flowerbed it’s fun eating dirt and watching pay-per-view porn it’s fun to wear nun’s robes and sleep outside of brothels it’s fun to be young and carefree it’s fun eating dirt but only with u

stay away from me, men r dogs, men have bites as big as their barks, men eat girls like me alive and spit out the bone stay away from me, men chase skirts and howl at the moon men can’t stop at the first draw of blood, the dog can’t contain itself stay away from me, stop digging up the dirt in my womb

You crouch over your 2006 art-porn film, wasabi peas littering the bed. Jim Morrison’s mug gazes listlessly from its vantage on the Command strip-stained walls of The Ivy League. Marijuana smoke hangs in the air. Your roommate turns to you and says, “Does Spotify have a visualizer?”


I skinned my elbow when i was seven in front of my Grandmother’s home. My grandmother was a gaunt woman with dark eyes and uneven teeth. I broke my front tooth on her back porch the summer I turned eleven. She taught me that it was alright to bend and break. You were twenty-five in the winter before I turned eighteen: the air was crisp, our knees full of bruises, a Quran under mattress, a backyard, brazen, a graveyard of growing pent-up aggression. I buried scrabble letters, photos of ex-boyfriends and my baby molars in the backyard to remind me of things that were once in my mouth. Blooded knuckles remind me of you: broken bones and mutations. I see your smile in the chernobyl blast. Every disaster has your name scrawled across it in a sloppy cursive. i don’t know who it says more about.

threw up in her k n o c k o f f Yves Saint Laurent handbag





I spend my days Day-drinking Champagne, no orange juice Outside of my baby pink Trailer home I spend my days Painting Easel, over lakefront Dollar store acrylics Press-on nails I spend my days Day-dreaming About God, about us Paint him Sitting in the sunlight I spend my days Watching Patiently, to See you roll on by In your ’91 Roadmaster I spend my days Finger-painting Shades of lilac, Flamingos, birds of Prey I spend my days Watching sunsets Drifting away Painting hues, of blue and gray

I spend my nights mid-summer with a Coors in hand, Swatting away at mosquitos, Pal Mal in the other I spend my nights Counting Constellations, Tracking stars, Contorting Them into shapes I spend my nights, mid-summer nights suspended, half in a sleepless, godless trance I spend my nights Counting cars, Lights beaming onto The side of our caravan, Waiting I spend my nights Hysteric, Mixing colors That wont work I’m so so sorry I spend my days Watching The sun plot against Me, silhouette of my god On the canvas


how do u know you’re not a brain in a vat how do u know that you even exist René Descartes can’t help u there’s piss all over the top lid of your toilet your fucking roommate never moves the seat up and down and up and down you ride the elevator of your community college up and down and up and down you’re too absorbed in what’s around you you’re just a fucking brain in a vat any southern town can feel like heaven every southern town feels like hell naming and namelessness you set up mouse traps with swiss bank accounts you won a nobel prize your mother finally said she loved you how do u know you’re not a brain in a vat there’s still piss on the toilet seat you don’t aim and even more piss drips down the seat onto the linoleum

tav a ni niarb a ton er’uoy wonk u od woh tsixe neve uoy taht wonk u od woh u pleh t’nac setracseD éneR ruoy fo dil pot eht revo lla ssip s’ereht teliot taes eht sevom reven etammoor gnikcuf ruoy nwod dna pu dna nwod dna pu -loc ytinummoc ruoy fo rotavele eht edir uoy egel nwod dna pu dna nwod dna pu uoy dnuora s’tahw ni debrosba oot er’uoy tav a ni niarb gnikcuf a tsuj er’uoy nevaeh ekil leef nac nwot nrehtuos yna lleh ekil sleef nwot nrehtuos yreve ssensseleman dna gniman -ca knab ssiws htiw spart esuom pu tes uoy stnuoc ezirp lebon a now uoy uoy devol ehs dias yllanif rehtom ruoy tav a ni niarb a ton er’uoy wonk u od woh taes teliot eht no ssip llits s’ereht spird ssip erom neve dna mia t’nod uoy muelonil eht otno taes eht nwod

I just want to fuck you I just want to cut you open and lay inside of you No one talks about the Death of Virgin Mary Poor Fucking Mary Poor Fucking Me

picked fresh from the Bodhi tree whispering promises of transcendentalism u discover the fruit inside has long gone the way of all flesh, rotted and brown in nature: a home for wasps and flies

i wanna fckin die sometimes when I’m knee deep in a vyvanse trance the motel tv is blasting out an I Love Lucy rerun no one gets my fcking art im yelling into the stained couch no one fcking cares this is the fourteenth cigarette i’ve chain-smoked in the past hour no one fcking wants to help I’m crying glitter in the bathtub trying to use the blowdryer to electro-shock my way into another plane of existence i wanna fckin die but what about the security deposit

i can’t seem to fuck u because of the angels ruin your body please clog up the clawfoot tub drown in ur innocence

I missed u I was for seven years sick and Bitter with god it’s been seven years since u showed up at my door

Uproot II (Winter '15)  

thank you all so much

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