I bought a tin of fava beans in that first frantic week of quarantine. I thought that it would be sensible to fill the cupboards with tinned food. Trips to the grocery store became missions to buy as many tins of tomatoes, tuna, and beans as possible. I felt like
Terrans have eaten the earth alive. The last rocket is leaving, carrying the rich and the useful. I am just a poet. I stay. I love the earth, especially when everyone is abandoning her. I love her when her face is ravaged, like an old page of a Marguerite Duras’
Etching lines form paranoia on a grander scale than detail ever could; the suggestion always far more frightening than reality In horror movies the monster is not shown until the climax of the movie. Drops of belladonna blinked into the eye to dilate the pupils to the point of eclipse.
On the old desk covering a grain whorl dark with age, there was a green square bottle of gin unstoppered from its cork, the fluorescents ghostly through it, and the molecules of the gin sat listening to the two as they spoke, and the squat coniferous juniper in the gin
Athena Dixon founded Linden Avenue Literary Journal in 2012 as a way to claim her own space. After ending a marriage, she wanted to prove to herself that she was capable, talented, and worthy on her own. That same year, after being called to expand and emerge, she decided to
AFTER A FIFTEEN HOUR WORKDAY Driving home I notice That the stars are green, My hands are pale blue And the streets are yellow Like that old brick road. The moon is really made of cheese. I can smell it through the fog. I get to my
I wake up every morning under the COVID-19 pandemic gripped by anxiety and then seek to soothe it through ritual. This ritual mainly involves making art and making myself up. I create to exert the intense energy buzzing in my chest and my brain. Holding a paintbrush or a camera
On the final minutes of my sixty-fifth day away from Nantes, I found what I sought at the bottom of a gully: a pool of dirty liquid, rim ice already crusting in the dusk. With frigid and trembling hands I dragged the vial through it, then crawled back up to
if your soul was an ice cream, what flavor would it be? rainbow sherbet melting peach-pink on your father’s child-fingers. rocky road but instead of nuts there are the beaks of baby doves. the marshmallows are already on fire. something purple and star-dusted that swivels like the head of an
Started out simply, like everyone else. <head> <body> Okay, separation of mind and body. <head> </head> <body> </body> A basis for a webpage, but lacking something. <head> <thoughts> </head> <body> </body> There’s still something not quite right. <head> <thoughts> <who the fuck am i> </thoughts> </head> <body> <something wrong???> </body>
