The Chemistry of Mayson W. Burnham and His Surrounding Universe by Cavin Bryce

    Ninety-nine percent of Mayson W. Burnham is composed of these following elements: oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. Roughly zero point eighty five percent of the Mayson W. Burnham is composed of potassium, sulfur, sodium, chlorine, and magnesium. As with all matter, an incredibly minute amount of  Mayson W. Burnham is composed of absolutely nothing- we’ll estimate here that 0.0001% of Mayson doesn’t even exist on an atomic level, that 0.0001% of him is utterly void of measurable building block materials.  Mayson W. Burnham is probably a physicist. Or a carpenter. Or a delivery man. Unless he … Continue reading The Chemistry of Mayson W. Burnham and His Surrounding Universe by Cavin Bryce

LILITH: PERCHED IN SILENCE by Moriah M. Mylod

In my dreams we were in Charleston imagining apparitions and clowns I wonder how we could devise plans to become ghosts together in a tourist town to scare off kids and lovers alike And seeing how they still wanted us around even The devil horned The pale-blue eyed The predatorial smiles The dirty skinned   A Murder of Crow, A Flight of Snow Geese In Winter’s frigid manner Their feet lifting off from the ground into a frightening flight Wings whirring in the wind To a bleakness up above With a singled eye Blindfolded   To be, but afar from … Continue reading LILITH: PERCHED IN SILENCE by Moriah M. Mylod

And In That Republic by Wes Bishop

And in that republic, they built a machine, a machine of a million names, but one purpose, cruelty. Inflicting pain was a virtue of nettles on bare skin, leaving kindness’s soothing balm treason. It is why I stopped searching this world for guidance, instead pilgriming to myself to find the capitol of compassion.   But the old men raged. Respect was a price they could not afford and even if they paid their dues nothing would change, they claimed. So, we were told to accept the world they had birthed.   In aborted flooded canals we swam, slow swarms watching … Continue reading And In That Republic by Wes Bishop

Playing the Riot Box by James Carraghan

The beat of the heart my love / Is stronger than the charts my love / Your water sign just lit my fire. –“No Matter What Sign You Are,” Diana Ross and the Supremes. There’s a lot of Motown sound coming out of a hole-in-the-wall bar on Christopher Street. That sound, that space, that park, changes with almost every year. The street changes so that elements of its past are forgotten; others are compartmentalized. The voices coming through the speakers are mostly smooth and harmonize with each other. The feeling is sentimental, in an uplifting way—exactly the sort of thing … Continue reading Playing the Riot Box by James Carraghan

No History To Speak Of, No Place To Speak From by Wes Bishop

I often come across many authors and thinkers in my reading who argue writing their own history is an emancipatory practice. In other words, they believe that taking control of the narrative of their past is the first step in creating their own distinct identity, which allows for the development of a particular social and political philosophy. I understand this argument. The violence of empires leaves us no other choice but to rip the pen from the hand of imperial historians and give it to the people who have been brutalized. Lions writing histories while telling the hunters to take … Continue reading No History To Speak Of, No Place To Speak From by Wes Bishop