From My Ass
Through the mountain tops I go down the road, as the memories come, and as they go, I look at the landscapes to find you on my mind.
I remembered that you liked teenage spirits, I was too youthful, inexperienced to understand.
I was free when I met you, unwilling to bend or cave to your order. It started with a simple question, that turned to interrogation
I was a free gazelle I claimed. You were my knight in shining armor, an older man, who would treat me right compared to the last.
The universe I held within my legs was something you craved, thirst for. You polluted her, harmed her, forced her, drugged her. Two years later, my universe was no more than an empty lifeless wasteland.
But!, One life remained, he was a star in my sky, you saw the light he produced in my universe, jealous of his shine you tried to take him from the universe you starved.
Six years have passed, my star shines bright, it’s light I fiercely defend. My universe is healthy again, but you ’ ve found another universe, another teenage spirit
I Remember The Lake
Blu Torres
I Remember The Lake
I attract I deflect I move on I reject I grow I move on again
I am always in motion, and sometimes it makes me sick to my stomach This illness knows no ailments I want to scream, cry, admit defeat Instead I stop, I breathe, There is only one place My mind takes me
I am in a body of water I am in the earth
I am a worm of no age, Born with the knowledge to squirm All five of my hearts
Beating faint, Beating fast.
I am swimming, I am digging, Propelled by a deep yearning To make anything last When my senses tingle, It is because I have felt the sun, I retract, back into the soil
I know my time has not yet come
I am algae on a rock Cold, wet, crying Inflating, Then deflating with every exhale, Still afraid it will be my last Suddenly I hear a voice, ‘It is just the drugs, Honey. Relax.’
You always laughed
When I would cry
You held my face
You said you knew me in another life
You said I was your secret, victorian wife
You said we would kiss under leaves in the autumn
You said I was white, with rosy pink cheeks
But you knew it was me by my curly sideburns
And the way my laugh would become an airless squeak
When the others found out
They took you away from me
We spent the rest of that life
Crying in windows,
Until we died,
Then we died again, and again
Resurrected in the modern times to fall in love,
Continue with our jealousy, complete our sins
I remember it well, in between tears
If I stop and breathe
I can still hear the running water
And the rustling of the leaves
I am nothing
Nothing but a fragment of dust
Stuck on the back of a fishbowl
Watching the fish wander back and forth
Chilled, and beguiled by his past life
He remembers the current, Sometimes gentle, often violent
Lost in thought,
Ruled by his loneliness
Ruled by the silence
Never happy,
Never at peace
I cry for him
I Remember The Lake
Charlie Hazel
king of nothing & Banshees in Babylon
king of nothing
all hail the king of nothing.
whose knuckles bleed like wrists, with centers of palm like concrete.
the king of nothing
whose day will never come if every dog has theirs.
long live the king of nothing.
with razors hidden on their person, wrapped in cloth.
el rey de nada.
who when asked, “where to next?” didn’t stop to look over his shoulder.
instead, he walked and walked, until they couldn’t see him anymore.
glory be to the king the king of nothing.
Banshees in Babylon
i want to tell you a story.
42,000 ft into thin air, 417 miles from home, i found peace.
danny was marrying jackie a second time, i was off my medication & the weather was just right, so we were going to be there.
mire sobre la ciudad. acostado en sus arenas y flotando en sus aguas.
me deje llevar hacia la locura y encontre paz. & the women. oh my god, the women. just in time for christmas in july.
i slept by the window so i could hear it all. the lights, the dogs. the doors, the people.
two cats making love by the bed, in a room full of elvis memrobillia staples to it’s walls. the wigs, the photos. the guitars, the records. sentí sus arenas y eran suaves.
la tierra debajo de las puntas de nuestros dedos, más suaves.
i left money on the fridge. with a note saying: i’ll be back when i’m ready. i love you.
i hope you found it after i left.
Jant Ramirez-Martinez
Canal & Shotgun
with illustration by Eddie Licona
Canal
I was a soldier, in my head. The canal was dry, I turned to look towards my cousin's no one home. Branch in hand, I kicked my bike to the side and dove into the canal watching my back as I moved forward because it was a solo mission Losing my stepping on the dirt walls didn’t phase the unlimited ammo in my clip Up ahead next to my grandpa’s tractor was a bridge I crawled up to it and began molding dirt into a seating area It was a smart move. The bridge was a 2x12, it'd be easy to catch any enemy from my position wanting to cross. The objective was to make it to the canal area where the rocks were, which was by the water valve. That was the enemy ’ s base. The task was no different than any of the other tasks I was given.
Go in, clear out, victory.
At go time, I was loaded with 2 branches and my bike was relocated behind a stack of dead grape vines The enemy couldn’t see it The stack was too high, you couldn’t see over the stack from the concrete bridge behind their base. Once their base was clear, I was to report to my base which was located between my grandpa and uncle's big rigs. Then and only then, is when you ’ re informed if you will remain a soldier or go off into the pond to pretend that your bike is a dirtbike.
Room cleared one enemy down after another, front to back. Job well done for a solo mission. I popped my head out, still no sign that my cousin was home. I was feeling hungry and decided to retire and head back home.
The eyes were wide. A sharp growl with a movement of determination. Pedaling was double the speed, watching our gate get closer and the sound of paws shifting dirt became clear enough that it overtook the sound of the thud under my shirt.
Closer Tight squeeze My bike, reaching limits it’s never had Closer Tighter My sweat combines with my tears. Voice, lost in the sound of hunger, not from myself. Mother, save me.
As I drove past Manning and McCall the other day, this little boy on his bicycle by the strawberry stand reminded me of that day. Our german shepard that ran towards me to fight off the growling at my ankles that day isn’t there anymore The blue house that sheltered me from the storm that day isn’t there anymore The red bike from that day isn’t there anymore
I never served in the corps. But the canal where all the missions took place will be there until it isn’t.
Shotgun
The roaring of the 168 holds my attention, for I sit in silence hoping for a buzz, honk, notification, more like an invitation into the night
Parched and muted is my soul, desire to attend the dance hall riddled with cobs is at hand, I drift to sit under the neon moon.
Sitting on the far side, I wait… Wait for my mug of company in a room filled with cheap karaoke. One out of key traveler after another.
I’m asked if I’m having a good time by a high hope divorcee, only know that because she’s sharing a story with me that once made her brown eyes rain.
The suns are down. Baskets for the wolves. Howl.
A traveler takes her away from the sorrows Is it all past you know? Is there a luggage of memories once considered monumental now tossed somewhere in a waste management dump? Will your bed feel the warmth of short term companionship and compare and contrast the eh who gives a shit.
Charcoal clouds holler for me outside. So, I down the last drops that bring me conversation, I slide out the side door to spread smoke into the light.
Spirits in my front pocket, as my spirit settles into a parking stall next to some bar hoping darlings with smiles that bring out the sun. I’m moved to wave and prop the door open as if I’m some sort of bellhop, I wonder which one of them will be the first to hop on the microphone, sing a song that’ll hype them all, to get up there together
Couple of concrete finishers hop off a ram, probably just finished up a pour. Speaking the language of my ancestors, we greet each other, I feel the celebration upon them to slow down the night and champion the cheers and be the last ones out. I assumed one of them wanted to bum a smoke.
Lonesome rides shotgun with the breeze, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder.
I Asked For A Favor
I Asked For A Favor
From the sun and the moon
I hate to say I'm a sick thing
To ask for help
Only at the the expense of others Pushing and pulling my wagon of trades never stepping down to make a save Yet when I struggle fumble and break I cry because my bones shake
In the zipped up parts of my skin like a maraca
I see seeds into the veins
To let the water go I expose it all to the rain
l asked please bless my life
Even though your tangled up Fighting through a fiery sky
Please let me
Let go
So I can die And relive
This old life
Alexey Alekseevich Aleshchev
“
when i was a kid i would run on golden leaves from the bereza tree during autumn and shipping paper boats on the little rainy running rivers on the streets.”
Kevin Kingkham
“ my family house for 3 decades and counting.”
“if i could be anywhere though, i think it would be in water. i like the feeling of floating. everything just kind of floats away for a second.
i like to imagine floating in water is like what floating in space feels like ”
inspiration from falling on deaf ears by hail the sun
i did my Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. went to church twice a week for 10 years. studied about all that you ’ ve given us, blessed us with and what i got was jack fucking squat actually not nothing entirely bullied and harassed by your devoted followers. my body was a playground to them. not the jungle gym out near the tetherball and 4 square. where the fuck were you when i got my innocence ripped from me. why did you just watch when i cried to my mom every day about the words they said to me, the names they called me she prayed to you every night, begging you to give me peace and help them realize the wrongs in their ways why haven’t you said anything to this day? “ you are in my hands now. ” why aren’t you listening?
reuniting for the first time in a year, you embraced her with a warm touch and said she felt lonely, as if she was searching for something- a missing piece of her she didn’t falter she didn’t know what it meant to miss something
but over time, slowly chipping away at the fortress she built, you left cracks and conquered her steel heart. only to soon decimate everything she had. flooding the light and innocence of the girl. left to gather the broken pieces alone.
what i’ve felt for years is heartache and grief at the thought of us (and her). watering down the truth, careful not to step on the landmines that would release the dam we repaired.
you say you still think about me but it’s her on your mind what you see is the husk of the one you left behind. the poor girl drowned from her own tears. “she called your name before she went, but i guess you weren’t listening”
her light faded, a new one shining. no longer are the cold walls of stone or concrete. only radiant mosaics of the remaining rubble i scavenge for. held together by compassion and kinship, allowing the alluring colors of transcendent love to shine through.
Country Where Cannibalism was Normal
by Martin Dabon
In the far future there was a Country Where Cannibalism was Normal and the people there were descended from Catholics. Most of their ancestors’ religious tenets have been long forgotten, minus a few particular tidbits such as, “it’s generally bad to sleep with another man ’ s wife, ” or, “murder is not a good thing most of the time. ” The one thing from old Catholicism that stuck with them though, with the details only partially altered by the passage of time, was a small parable about the faith’s central demigod figure where he offered up his own flesh and blood as a course at dinner.
While, naturally, the precise way in which cannibalism was practiced varied by region, human meat was only ever consumed during special occasions. Almost universally it was a staple at funerals. On top of that, most places considered it taboo to eat the flesh of someone they had no blood relation to. From their perspective, it was akin to how we might view incest today.
In our modern world there is a not-too-uncommon sentiment that one might encounter, that being, “A family that eats together stays together. ” That idea too endured across the millennia, as over there in the Country Where Cannibalism was Normal they had it in their heads this “sacred notion” that after someone passes away, that person should have the dignity of being present for one last meal alongside their loved ones.
That aforementioned last meal was their wake, which during this time period, tended to have more “cheerfulness” about them compared to the ones we ’ re used to holding. They were still formal affairs though, reliant upon strict procedure and rules that went mostly unspoken. For instance, the body of the individual that passed needed to be situated at a place of honor, such as atop a large platter at the center of a grand table, so it was obvious that they were the main dish. Foodstuffs more palatable to our present tastes were either there as garnishing on their cadaver or on the side upon surrounding smaller plates.
The decorum did not cease there. In order for the occasion to be considered, “in good taste” further procedures had to be adhered to, such as the way it was determined who got priority in eating. That was based on gender and degree of relation to the deceased. It was not first come first served. For instance, when a father dies his sons came before his daughters and got their share ahead of them, but for a dead mother it was her daughters before her sons. In either case, next came the deceased’s brothers and sisters, then followed up by nephews and nieces, before it continued down the family tree; the body got carved up and given out like a feudal lord’s land.
However, in many places within the Country Where Cannibalism was Normal, they did not just take a slice and move along the line. Certain body parts were owed to specific family members. Some typical examples: sons had to eat their father’s testicles and eyes, mothers their children’s scalps, or siblings the fingers. What particular part went to whom was different across regions.
In some places people were able to assign parts of themselves to whoever they wanted in a written will. This was more rare due to a set of commonly held pseudo-spiritual assumptions which were tied to the reasoning behind why someone ate what part. Sons received their father’s eyes so that he might, “ see things exactly as he had”, and in turn just as his father before him had seen things. Mothers caress the scalps of their babies, but in the unfortunate case where the child passes before her, she should have some way of cherishing that piece of them forever. Siblings tend to bicker or poke fun at one another all their lives, especially when they are young, so while a finger is but a morsel, there was a symbolic gesture in that being the piece a brother or a sister was given to eat. So on it went with other threads of logic.
Martin Dabon
Country Where Cannibalism was Normal
Karla Zalapa
Found Heaven In Oakland, Found Home In Fresno & The Joys Of Life’s Simplicity
Found Heaven In Oakland, Found Home In Fresno
What was the biggest surprise of my concert trip?
The fact that I missed shitty old Fresno
Familiar, sunlit sights of my hometown:
Woodward Park Fresno City College West Browning Avenue
Sweet, excited text messages from my loved ones:
¡Escuché el tren y mi corazón saltó! Can’t wait to see you! Yippee! You’re almost here!
And wholesome, encouraging spray-painted murals:
Be kind! Laugh often! Your story isn’t over yet! Stay strong, live on!
Beckoned me to escape the confines of Amtrak train 714
The moment we arrived at the rundown station, I rushed out of the train car and onto the bustling platform,
Looking for the one person I desperately needed to see
Finally, I found him. My boyfriend.
His smile and I love yous warmed my aching heart, His embrace and caresses comforted my tired body, His love healed the agony of travel within my soul
Twenty One Pilots brought me heaven,
But Ian brought me home.
The Joys Of Life’s Simplicity
Life is full of heartwarming moments where you find joy in the most mundane.
Talking with coworkers, laughing together without restrain, enjoying the peace of a tutorial center without needy students.
Hugging your boyfriend, admiring his dedication and creative talents, appreciating the gifts he lovingly carved and painted onto wooden grain.
Listening to upbeat music on the bus, waiting to reach Bullard and Dante,
Walking along the sidewalk full of greenery, arriving home full of excitement
To see your German Shepherd, your caresses and scratches a warm reminder of the unconditional love you have felt for your old girl since she was a puppy
And drink bubble tea with your sister, sipping on creamy mango deliciousness, cherishing your silly late-night conversations as you relax on the couch together. And eat cereal with your mom, munching on sweet bunches of oats and honey, exchanging a buenas noches before getting comfy and embracing sleep’s darkness
Daniel Mascareño
It was the only place that truly felt like home.
It didn't matter the reason, as long as we were all together, it felt like life couldn't get any better.
Endless laughs and screams left and right which would annoy anyone, to me it felt like peace.
I didn't think I would lose it all so soon.
Looking back, I believe I took it all for granted
I would give up anything to feel like that one more time; but now, I have to create my own happiness.
Luckily, I have been able to find people that have helped emulate that feeling. And for that I thank them. Welcome to
Blanco
Daniel Mascareño
Blanco
David Turner
“If you ask me what kind of subjects I shoot I always say I just take pictures of what I like. Things I think are interesting, people I think look cool. These are photos that I took while I was out and about that I thought would make a cool shots. Though recently I’ve been working on taking better photos and hope to one day have one of my shots on the front of one of those magazines you see on the rack at the grocery store checkout.”
A Letter From Me, The Editor.
thank you to anyone who has ever clicked, read or said good job.
thank you to my first supporter ever. thank you to the person who made my website. thank you to greats. thank you to my family. thank you to my friends. thank you to the new friends thank you to my lovers & enemies. thank you mom, thank you dad. thank you god, thank you lola.
my name is charlie hazel.
i love you. so much.
i hope i don’t let you down.
let’s try again.
Ruben Mejia Charlie Hazel
Kevin Kingkham
Danny Mascareño
Blu Torres
David Turner
Kyler
