Dusty Neu

below genola


drift draft shifting & windows i

breeze coldly empty myself a

thin strip of sand & swallows

lapping high forceful lengthen &

with boots on i empty myself a

strip of late morning with pacing

be a bee box then in a dream a

dozen shivering silverfish


self portrait with softly obscured

genitals & little birds a bag faced

lamb another face & one on an

ugly pumpkin out in the swamp a

wandering confectioner often

petting a verdigris skyward &

teetering slack jawed thankful for

horse dancers & little soldiers


a banker chews my rind & faints

in the heat of the meat market

giblets & such the snakes the

sidle up the cleavers & such

music of the cleavers & such like

clusters of keys do suck up the

air & lull the softer types & such to

sheep softly & cheek stroking


that even what’s more that even

saltier skin which coming from the

salt pit so staring so stripped so

close that at a cork that a torso

fold itself torquing hillward

saber-headed & holy like men in

the tar pit & tacky like cognac

candied pineapple & swords


dream team of the extremely

elderly make entrance laterally

on dreamy littorals most sweetly

lector dryly windborne lacteal

night for city folk for tremors in

the people place yokes level out

the people place yokes folks who

swim out & peck at one another


then them tenderly up the ridge

& all in them were i think you

streaming steam seeing someone

drew a duck on a keep my eyes off

a tender hunk of hairy chest

lovelier melons than field behind

the market where i do soak with

feel soak how to you think you


DUSTY NEU is a poet and translator born and raised in rural California with an MFA from Brown University. He co-translated Alessandro de Francesco’s Remote Vision from the Italian (Punctum Books) and his poetry has appeared in VOLT, Pear Noir!, and 3am. He lives and works in Rhode Island.

Junior Dare


“Oh, how different the desert looks
when imagined by the well-educated!”

-Freddy’s third essay,
The Genealogy of Morals

epibiont smiles // white as hellscapes

grab yr damp shirt discrete
or just continuous
or just both
like a circuit

asynchronous speeds slow roll
& chosen collapse like
lets cuddle and share disjunctures

i fuck up again ducking a glare
off geography’s spectral effect on various racial lucencies spiral out n down to just
getting a hand job from a twunk whose shoes
match his lambo stitching

boustrophedon kisses down a #hairless chest
first we were a tile and now abacisci boi wounds
pretending something like mutual pattern recognition and
adjacent injury make zellige not just some
abstracted trauma exchange
healing is a masquerade daddy
Screenshot 2016-07-23 at 4.10.49 PM


my sweat is sugar sweet @ &&
a hot dawn,
dilute a few doses of clarity
tongue a gloriously decadent
focaline dance
adderall tomorrow’s parties promise
vyvantage point pretty
w/ abandon
chemical trick
late into the night

i like to close my eyes with just an ugly light on
alone in the bedroom
well-acquainted w/ my own darkness
comfortable trusting few things beyond crashes
beyond intimate constant returns






a l l a u d i e n c e s a r e p o s s i b l e

Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.47.19 PM
One of the seductive things about surveillance is that you know you are making an impression —as so much data —regardless of whatever effort you make or don’t make. You don’t have to try; algorithms will impute intentionality to your behavior without your having to taint it with your own willfulness. The behavior can seemingly remain pure

making an impression, realize you just summarized most of McLuhan’s career
w/ two big ass boogies in yr mustache
to someone who at no point cared about the content of the exchange
just the fact of its existing
stop misreading the crowd
willful taint in summertime sweatpants mid­-noon sandwich kissesdrooling the
sweatshop sublime

an old flame and a flicker shadow of conversations you remember enjoying
all life is conversation // if you expand the definition // generous information generation
a little transformation // an elevator pitch for the glitching globalization of visual language

you know

just one of those seductive things

Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.48.02 PM
choke me width w/ the seats down inside this suv
cum in the world killer cuddle the nonchild
cum on the world maker cuddle the oncechild

she says stop misgendering me // to someone else // inside their phone
comb his hair really nice say no anal just sit in my lap
behavior can seemingly remain pure behavior can seemingly remain pure behavior can seem
pure behavior can seemingly remain behavior behavior can seemingly remain can behavior
remain remain remain


Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.48.31 PMillegally parked on a farm
Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.48.54 PM

splendid unnatural acts

Screenshot 2016-07-24 at 2.49.04 PM


JUNIOR DARE is a crip abolitionist poet dreaming of the post-queer, studying the left of the future and the right of the present, tweeting @prismxp.

Nate Pritts


Such strong winds today
in this forgotten valley.

They come rampant
from the beginning of time to now
and the twilight is fading all around me.

I imagine heavy water
crashing against the shore
which is a sound I remember
from the many years I spent
on the coast of an imaginary land.

I could see villagers from my window.

They were like rocks
stoicagainst the recurrent battery
of time.

The awakened light of life.

And I have emptied myself
again and again
so as to be whole.
I feel this narrative chronology
my own life
like a dreama structure
that exists underneath

other more obvious textures.
But we were talking about the wind

and how my soul has become a stone
full of its own dead weight.
We do not live in a magical land.
When you come for me
bring everything you have
all your armies
every weapon at your disposal.
Because I am ready to die.
Butas I doI will sing such terrifying songs.

I see you cold
covered with severe reason
and an echoing glare
harsh refractive

too much logic
stifling the heat of your
forever ago smile
my understanding of it

your incandescence now dim
because it is memoryor because

you’ve let your compassion fall
into a simple patterned brain.

Whatever it was between us
I can’t see the traces
of some previous yesterday in today.

But it was real
would still be

except for the fact that it is not.


NATE PRITTS is the Director and Founding Editor of H_NGM_N (2001), an independent publishing house that started as a mimeograph zine, and he is the author of eight books of poetry, including the recent Post Human (2016) and the forthcoming Revenant Tracer, which won the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award and will be published in the fall of 2017. He lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York state.

Katie Hibner

A Brief History of the Manufacture of Symbols

The Allfather attempted to jolt
the sensory mailbox of the Arctic Circle.
He thawed the bridle path
with a hot rinse of embryos.
He scraped a spark from his flint torc
so he could bake
his timeless suffer-pelts.
He shuttled in orcas
to fatten up his homemade ship burials,
constructing them in ALLCAPS
so they could rise and be sliced
into future Valentine candies.

Later, presenting to a school group,
a tour guide shook down one of the ship burials
for fertility symbols.

A student rolled his eyes, muttering,
If I see another pomegranate in this gallery I’m gonna scream.




The Territory Speaks

I am this town
and its choir director.

I am a mellowed-out banshee of wonders;
I lend my digestive flume as a waterslide
for hard-candy toboggans,
topping it off with a doily half-pipe—

but my historian is a blinkered puppet.

He answers to a pink clown
who lives on a diet
of street corners and pepper spray.

They name my hoosegow “Sputnik.”
They educate school groups with a drone
that only talks in 140 characters or less.

They often reduce me to soaking their foam capsules—
they earn tax exemptions if they sprout into dinosaurs.




Big (Brother) Data

We attempt to pry the NSF-funded balloons
out from the centers of our hard candies,

so the government detains us
in their cream cheese fjord.

Just out of reach,
loaves of Big Daddy Data pile up.

They ask us who we bivouacked with last Arab Spring,
if they would find honeyed sickles on our pocket squares.

All I say is that I hope
they’re denied coffee boys in the afterlife—

they light us up
like twice-baked hot potatoes.




The New Fracking

They weave this town
to a loom sticky with zebra mussels.

Their centurions double as crossing guards,
some genuinely wanting to rocket-fuel our posterity.

For members of their two-bit parliament,
the coiffeur à la mode

is superposition, layers packed
with carbonated ram skulls.

My daughter runs off
with one of their androids.

We used to raise columbines.



KATIE HIBNER is a confetti canon from Cincinnati, Ohio. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Bone Bouquet, glitterMOB, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Powder Keg, smoking glue gun, and Word for/Word. Katie has read for Salamander and Sixth Finch and dedicates all of her poetry to her mother, Laurie.

Porpentine Charity Heartscape



(rule for typing title: the exact number of letters doesn’t matter just type whatever amount feels good)






All animals were exterminated from the streets of heaven
I’m just a single mom trying to get by

I earn 10G sweeping cum from the palace atrium
I squeeze my eyes into the coin-operated binoculars pointed at hell
The bored haggard sluts with their cold sores
Pimples in their hair like the inflamed eyes of newborn animals
Scabby legs slung over the chasm, tossing rocks from their aching hands, knuckle-bridled

Throwing rocks into the bottomless chasm separating hell and heaven is like hurting someone
and never having to take responsibility for your actions

I want the bored hell sluts
to find a secret tunnel
so we can rest our tired slutty thighs together on the steps stained by soul rain
which is like normal rain except a little warmer.

I want to wring the grease from their hair and brush it.
They would be better daughters
than the children at the foot of my bed
when I woke up in heaven

They lay on the floor, eyes open, waiting

I don’t know how long they waited
Their skin is smooth and poreless like a doll

Time cannot act on this room
And anyone could have woke in this room
And disappeared from this room
We are poured through the bed









Angels glide across the city of Heaven
we run to collect the guano

The scouring searchlight of an angel’s stupid lazy gaze
Can’t help but burn a thing that runs across their path

We respawn in a random location.
When everything looks the same
it is emotionally difficult to find our way back
to the tiny parts of this mega stone world
we call our nests

I sweat massively
Nervously equipping and unequipping my [Common Stone]
As the background midi of heaven loops
16 seconds of unkillable noise
Like bricks of rusty honey

There is no sun here, only light

My children watch me tall as towers

I wish I was still on earth

AngelGuano 30g



An angel’s huge, blind, axolotl cock slithers across the floor
I bathe it in salt water
tiny hands, or fronds, or antennae grope mindlessly along the side of the cock

The angel moans in the other room
I don’t think it’s a moan of anything in particular
it just makes those sounds
crawling toward nothing
lodestone in its pigeon head like shrapnel

My hands are dish-washing hands
red and scalded

The cock roamed from the distant chamber
and found me




My purple mesh thong was smuggled from hell
in a picnic basket
and gives me perfect vision of sluts
so when my giant egg-shaped children have slowly turned their faces to the wall
the closest they’ll ever come to sleep
I droop my planemelting eyeballs through the thatch ceiling
of a hellslut’s house
and watch her stick her dick in [Red Potion]
tiny numbers crawling up her face like ants
my jelly hand crazy straws back to heaven
and crits my cock
hard enough to see the salt erosion on the inside of my own skull




practicing my special i was born
without a special. practicing my special
in the courtyard.

my children look older than i am.

the worst part of heaven is not having another world to dream of.

fantasize the perfect combo to tear a crack in the skybox.

practicing my special by the sole
functioning light in the 83rd stairwell,
the special that could be.

someone comes closer and I move away.



i have 1 memory of earth


PORPENTINE CHARITY HEARTSCAPE is a new media artist, writer, game designer, and trash woman, whose games and curation contributed to the contemporary hypertext renaissance and the popularity of accessible text art software Twine. She’s won the XYZZY and Indiecade awards, had her work displayed at EMP Museum and The Museum of the Moving Image, been profiled by The New York Times, commissioned by Vice, The New Inquiry, and Rhizome, and she is a 2016 Creative Capital Emerging Fields and 2016 Sundance Institute’s New Frontier Story Lab fellow.

Phillip Spotswood












PHILLIP SPOTSWOOD was born into a Catholic family and turned out queer. His work can be found in Heavy Feather Review, Cartridge Lit, SunDog Lit, and is forthcoming from Hobart. He is a MFA Poetry candidate at LSU, and is the upcoming editor-in-chief of The New Delta Review.

Jon-Michael Frank

Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
my brain fizzing is more my life than I want it to
what’s inside introspection that erupts into annihilation
the pretty side of a cliff is the side you can die off of
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
elusive girls donning unnatural patterns
reality is the language of fear
I’d rather feel it virtually
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
distant relatives smashed at a funeral
when I think there’s no such thing as the present moment
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
the sun masquerading its mug shot behind a headstone
aphorism is the hand-me-down of human ruin
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
the void oozing its tooth under your pillow
I live inside a perspective I gild by the dumbness of heart
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
chasing the tail of a reverie
the more vivid the hunger the more private it feels
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
it’s glum to know too much
my obsession speaks to the obsolescence of things
Microsoft Word - NEWDREAM1POEM.docx
rotting hydrangea exiting a vase
what is it about loss I can’t get enough of


JON-MICHAEL FRANK is the author of two forthcoming poetry chapbooks: Nostalgia Flower (Sad Spell Press) and TBD (Birds, LLC). A book of poetic comics How’s Everything Going? Not Good is out now from Ohio Edit / Cuneiform Press. He is the acquisitions editor for the small press Birds, LLC, and lives on the Puget Sound.

Stacey Tran

garden ocean kindness

In the morning I unfold the dirt from my hand
My lover is putting me through a silent retreat
Designed for compliment recipients who are unable to accept gifts


table chair window

Maximalist etiquette requires stationary wheels
The idea alone of some train is no longer good enough for me
Often I wonder what can I do with a $20 bill


string fabric sleep

It’s a circus up there where I try feeding myself yarn
There’s no pattern to follow just one foot in front of the other
Worried I’m wearing anything at all that slightly resembles pajamas


time money water

I could sleep for one more hour but my eyes won’t shut
I keep refreshing my online banking summary, nothing changes
A water bottle is my least favorite thing to carry


tree speech listen

If a woman’s shirt is longer than her jacket, leave her
I want to write and be read anywhere
There are no words you don’t know


mouth ear hand

There are no words I would use that I normally would not
Why would I
Be proving the sticks of fashion we hold together


metal glass pavement

Dragging an elevator outside
It won’t be photogenic maybe but you will feel something
What’s it like to run way over to the far end of the opposite of clarity


paper cloud metal

I can’t trust myself in the moment of looking up a definition or the weather
From here I predict
An aftertaste of shiitake mushroom drying on the evening rack of my tongue


concrete water oil

One doesn’t have to decide
Between a block sale and a ladder made of cards
I am asking you to show me how wet your fingers are


wind cloth cloth

There’s no worse sound than a door that opens immediately once it has closed
If the scarf comes down past her waist she’ll hang up before you do
What other article of clothing are you a little too good for?


STACEY TRAN lives in Portland, OR. www.staceytran.com

Janice Lobo Sapigao


Screenshot 2016-03-28 at 1.43.26 PM


dead, casualty
they were right here
this space
and they left

If every woman has a grave deep inside her,

Then mine is my father’s
A four-cornered stone that holds my focus
My last name etched in cement


Sapigao is not just a surname
It is the X on a map
Marking the territory of my father’s body in the cemetery


Every Father’s Day I follow it
This is where I celebrate
Every November for his birthday,
Every March when I can remember,
Where each visit is a prayer


A reminder that I am small against landscape
Standing above someone standing above me
My father is the bouquet of roses
Lillies, baby’s breath, the occasional potted plant

They say flowers are the scent of the dead

A potent temporary reminder

I have learned to love him

By holding tight and letting go


Screenshot 2016-04-04 at 1.13.22 PM
A part of this conversation is missing.

I swear that Gem, who might be one of my cousins, sent me a message about wanting to talk to my mother, whom I was upset with at the time he messaged me.

I swear that Gem asked for my mother’s contact information and needed it right away. I could sense the urgency, but I did not act in like manner.

I was too upset with my mom and a bit frightened at family members’ accessibility to make contact with me.

I only responded because I had seen on Gem’s Facebook profile many people expressing in Ilokano condolences and aches for his life. They presented me disbelief that Gem was gone. That Gem had passed away unexpectedly.

The message I sent was an attempt to make up for the fact that I had ignored his previous messages. I thought that if I’d replied he’d reply, too. I thought that I had misread the comments in Ilokano. I suddenly wanted to converse with him knowing I couldn’t.

What if the reason Gem messaged me correlated to his need to talk with my mother? What if it was my fault?

This is the same person:
My dad    My Father Son
This man       on the             tapes
Juan C. SapigaoJuan Sapicao
John SapiagostrangerJohn Sapigaoa man in love
JohnnyJuan Cariaga Sapigao
parentJohnny C. Sapigaothe deceasedimmigrantJuan Sapigao, Capt. U.S. Army J. Sapigoa
“Doddy” mahal
UncleSAPIGAO, U.S. Army


Screenshot 2016-03-28 at 7.54.26 PM

I don’t know for how long my dad lived in Saudi Arabia.

I have a lot of friends whose fathers worked there.

Some said they lived most of their lives without a father around.

I imagined their fatherlessness just as I imagined my own.


Screenshot 2016-03-28 at 1.44.01 PM

Example: Father’s sacrifices

An example of this is “father’s sacrifices.” This means that the sacrifices belong to the father. This means that he has given up, offered – strategically, religiously, constantly. This means that he left and that his absence is a sacrifice. That when he sacrificed to go away, that I have sacrificed, too. I inherited his sacrifice. I duplicate sacrifice.

Screenshot 2016-03-28 at 1.44.07 PM
An example of this is “father’s sacrifices.” This means that, without the apostrophe, one would also be saying “father is sacrifices.” The father, singular, has sacrificed many times, in the plural form. This means that more than one sacrifice has been made. That the father is an embodiment of multiple forms of sacrifice.


Screenshot 2016-03-28 at 1.44.14 PM



to struggle
good luck pronouncing
the curvatures of that which
strangles you




JANICE LOBO SAPIGAO is a poet, writer, and educator from San José, CA. Her first book of poetry about her mom, microchips for millions, critiques the Silicon Valley and its exploitation of immigrant women workers, and will be published this summer by Philippine American Writers and Artists (PAWA), Inc. She teaches English at San José City College and Skyline College. She loves hip hop, runs races occasionally, and plays with stuffed animals. Please visit her website: janicewrites.com

Marisol Limon Martinez



The minotaur suffers only from minor nightmares.

He dreams infant dragons devour him whole.

A silver sphere circling round and round a disc-shaped plate.

His eyes remain in a frozen state.

He is a form that travels with me.

I fly above the wilderness, and now that I am inside, I discover a
windowless house.


A marquee in the shape of a hexagon
Reads, “Solitude in darkness is the ideal inspiration for transformation”
When she leaves me, she says
I like boys better because they let me seek consolation in our naked

Years before, I see the premonition
inside her silver door
A fine apartment in the oldest quarter of the city
The perfect place for a blackout
Her face was always a mess and my hair even worse
The bronze plates next to paintings read: Film, Pyramid, Man Cut Up,
Little Boy Dream, Aztec Tides, Monster Sky, Totems and World Belong,
Dim Lights
In the basement of my building, a bony figure sings my praises,
Proclaiming, “You are too strong for her and her upsets”
The only dreams are the sound dreams
Safe madness

You have 5000 years in that face



Rose is dying. Stop.


I send you a giftbasket.
Enclosed is a card.

Enclosed are:Two apple tarts
Six strands of hair
One broken collar bone
My half-eaten thumb

With love,
Face bones

Stop talking! I’ll murder you!
I poisoned….
I’m poisoned
They poisoned me
The doctor’s here
I can’t write the check
I like your watch
I can’t go
I don’t
I have a long story
I can’t talk now
I’ll tell you the story later
Water please
Let me close
Let me out!
Grow water
Grow clothes
Grow close
Close, no, no, no
Close, close it up
Where are you going?
Go under
Under! Let me take off my
clothes, I doubt that
Who is she? Where am I going?
Take off my clothes
Let me take off my clothes
Let me take off my clothes
Let me take off my clothes
Where are the boys?
The boys!
Tuae perceptiones non consonae veritati sunt


he is
me is
she is
do it
stairs a
of mo
tion a




Ed. Note: This work originally appeared in Martinez’s third book, Via Dissimulata, out now from Octopus Books. Reprinted with permission from the author and Octopus Books.


MARISOL LIMON MARTINEZ is a writer, musician, and visual artist based in New York City.


Poet, musician, and visual artist Marisol Limon Martinez’s third book, Via Dissimulata, uses the book as a frame & a portal: phrases and images echo, cycle, and stutter as the book-length poem accrues meanings both archetypal and personal—from the wilderness and the rebus to seven pills taken with water. Via Dissimulata explores ideas of the body, family, gender, culture, and speech, how these extend beyond dichotomies into permeable layering of ideas. It integrates visual studies for a five-panel painting that includes the text of the entire poem with poetry that uses the space of the page as another canvas, by turns minimalist and expressionist. Via Dissimulata tracks the tensions between the individual and the metaphysical, with poetry precise as it is harrowing, haunting as it is lovely.