Writing is an act of resistance
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The Candidate
By Bebe Kern Out of television into living daylight, like the nightmare demon of my Southern girlhood, the specter is everywhere: dirty ballcap man in the pickup with a truck-size Rebel flag flying over Mardi Gras; salesman with a leer; frat boy drunk on Dewar’s and privilege mocking a sissy, marking territory on the…
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The Invisible
By Jason Metz You do not see us, so let me show you. I’ll start here, with a needle. First, there’s an antiseptic pad to sterilize the injection area, to the left of the belly button, just below a birthmark. The needle is more like a fat pen, a pre-filled syringe encased in plastic…
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Better Than Truth
[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”no” equal_height_columns=”no” hide_on_mobile=”small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility” background_position=”center center” background_repeat=”no-repeat” fade=”no” background_parallax=”none” enable_mobile=”no” parallax_speed=”0.3″ video_aspect_ratio=”16:9″ video_loop=”yes” video_mute=”yes” overlay_opacity=”0.5″ border_style=”solid” padding_top=”20px” padding_bottom=”20px”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_2″ layout=”1_2″ spacing=”” center_content=”no” hover_type=”none” link=”” min_height=”” hide_on_mobile=”small-visibility,medium-visibility,large-visibility” class=”” id=”” background_color=”” background_image=”” background_position=”left top” background_repeat=”no-repeat” border_size=”0″ border_color=”” border_style=”solid” border_position=”all” padding=”” dimension_margin=”” animation_type=”” animation_direction=”left” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_offset=”” last=”no”][fusion_text] By Jens Köhler We had hoped that truth would set…
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No More Cream Puffs
By Darrell Petska Can’t you feel it? That chokehold on our throats— write like this say it like that be dignified, calm, aloof— Hell, today’s hands demand poems hard as a brick. Frilly little rhymes? Maybe Sundays with tea. Something afraid of us wants our words meek, not defiant: “Go ahead, throw your cream puffs.…
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Something More
By Cynthia Romanowski 2017: January. Huntington Beach. I’m on my couch. Tears rolling down. Obama just thanked Michelle in his farewell and I’ve finally lost it. This is not about politics, at least it doesn’t feel like it, it feels like something more. In the kitchen my boyfriend opens a package from the mail. It’s…
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Patriotism Reconsidered
By Lucinda Marshall My anthem is the serenade of birds, sung without regard for map lines delineating human assumption of dominion over that which cannot be possessed, and I will not pledge allegiance to, or defend a flag of illusory freedom. As the sun greets each day, I will bravely stand up—against racism, gendered…
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Brother, Can You Spare the Time?
By Kevin Patrick McCarthy Every day, impoverished buskers lay down a diverse soundtrack on the Pearl Street Mall in Boulder. Even as we studiously avoid their eyes, we’re ensnared in their webs of mood and memory. They count on our collective wondering and remembered joys. My favorite is a skinny longhair. His white whiskers are…
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New Madonna
By Celeste Schantz Visiting a gallery of religious art I can no longer relate to these dusty framed virgins and whores. Your Madonnas are too beautiful; poor, pale, mute dolls propped against empty cerulean skies. I want to see some new Madonnas. Of the scars, of the streets. Our Lady of Goodwill, hunched at…
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The Daylight Underground
Fiction, Héctor Tobar, dystopian future, Deep Down Dark: The Untold Stories of 33 Men Buried in a Chilean Mine and the Miracle That Set Them Free, The Barbarian Nurseries, mass deportationBy Héctor Tobar For the last time, we share a moment of sensual repose. My hand in yours. The sweat on our bare skin, a salty moistness in the desert air. My mestiza, Maritza Melanie. And me, your James, your lover for one hour more. We weren’t supposed to happen. That chance meeting at…