Writing is an act of resistance
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Mr. Trump’s Sunday Morning Service
By Judith Skillman Water-worn image of an eye etched and lined, the tilted earth no longer holds its metal. * Water worms the soil until a hollow man comes to rule— a toad gurgling ribbit ribbit. * Power over versus personal power duel it out à la 21st siècle psycho babble. * To whomever…
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What Crosses
By Jane Rosenberg LaForge Teeth and rosaries: the hard business of taking a census, in this case one of erasure, pound for pound of marrow and pith, the appropriation of bone for bracelets, tree bark for embracing new belief systems. Everything funneled into flat equations, which should come out even, if the arithmetic is properly…
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Want Fries With That?
By Jon Wesick The smell of reused, vegetable oil made Uncle Sam’s mouth water as he examined the backlit menu above the brushed-steel counter. When the cashier in the multicolored baseball cap motioned, Uncle Sam stepped forward. “I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and root beer.” “That’ll be $6.25.” The harsh overhead lights exposed the…
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Two Poems by Jeremy Nathan Marks
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Untitled art by Beth Levine
Beth Levine shares her life with two dogs. She is vegan and an animal rights activist, believing that the root of all injustice is the idea that some lives matter less, and no living being should be exploited. She is a psychotherapist, writes poetry, creates visual artwork, and feeds the birds, squirrels and raccoons who…
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what i imagine
By Kate McLaughlin were it that easy, that words alone could save us. sometimes i let myself imagine grammatical rebels and daily syllables of resistance with bold punctuated uprisings. if words alone could save us, i’d write all night. in my grammar book, recruitment would be what hanging prepositions exist for. hangin’ at all…
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The Wall that Trump Built
A dystopian cumulative tale by Robbie Gamble This is the wall that Trump built. This is the base that supported the wall that Trump built. This is the anger that stirred up the base that supported the wall that Trump built. These are the migrants, the “rapists and thugs,” such a shadowy danger disturbing…
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The man who killed me got out of prison this week
By Marissa Glover I do not dream of winning the Heisman Trophy, of going pro after a standout junior year, of one day being inducted in the NFL Hall of Fame. I do not dream of breaking records or wearing rings or signing contracts with Nike and Gatorade. I do not dream of retiring to…
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Translated from the Portuguese
By Mark Blickley Artist’s note: This past fall, I co-curated an exhibition in Lisbon, Portugal, Tributaries, that opened on Sept. 30th and ran for ten weeks, under the auspices of the international artist’s cooperative, Urban Dialogues. While in Lisbon, I went into the oldest continuous bookstore in the world, Chiado Bertrand Bookstore, which was founded in 1732 (the…