Rose Knapp


There happy
You've had
Your God Damn 
MoMA of Silence
For Your Self A Secondsex

Burning scripts
Which ones win?


Und Ur Platzovál

Ban banana
Bannon Republak
Platund Platz
Quite jetzt
Martini plz
Fuk again tra
Sik must we?
Ya Stoya again
Coke en masse
Nein danke 
Nein tropes
Needed or
Wanted hier 
Mein Himmler
Odar Fader
Shots fired
Du ist die Wurst
Wie Kunst die die 
Die Romeo Rowlings Lins
Dante flames Homo Tanzen 
Jehovah jails Job over ice
Herds etc.
Blah blah 
Blaise passé
Blake Shelley
Pascal pastels
Anna Sextons
Alasss Sylvia 
Time und joy
Meine sickle
Salvia Dali Dalits
Datura Plaths
& Ivanka


Great Commission Edit

Must be pathed 
Und skyscraped
Pound four Pound
Purgatorio Dolarosa
Yes it will look self-imposed
Certainly not self-fulfilling
Perhaps even Futurist
Du Nu I still Domina
Same wasteland game 
Scheißkerl climbers
Foucov Nikolai slavs 
Nicht even pure .data
Climaxes own bruts
Enough of
Ur wine
Du sell 

-Marx possibly



ROSE KNAPP is a poet, producer, and multimedia artist. She has publications in Lotus-Eater, Bombay Gin, BlazeVOX, Hotel Amerika, Gargoyle, and others.​ She has a chapbook forthcoming with Hesterglock Press. She currently lives and works in Manhattan.

jayy dodd

black condition_png


jayy dodd is a blxk question mark from los angeles, california– now based on the internet. they are a professional writer & literary editor. their work has appeared / will appear in Lambda Literary, The Establishment, Assaracus, Winter Tangerine, Guernica, & Yes, Poetry among others. they’re the author of [sugar in the tank] (Pizza Pi Press 2016) & Mannish Tongues (Platypus Press 2017). they are a Pushcart Prize & Bettering American Poetry nominee; their work has been featured in Teen Vogue & Entropy. find them talking trash or taking a selfie @

John Rufo

something about courtney garvin

We went way down and crossed over to the side that isn’t even other it’s an ether and breath, it’s the breathing on time and all out of sorts, my sort of quarrel with the cosmos and the down-drop-dew you sow into the earth (or else) (or else what?). The questioning teeth and its own kind of regime. Making hair over ten times, showing it again and again, this time will be different but it’s the same old different, still all sensational. Motion. Cleaning out the archives, the attic. A genealogy foretold and borrowed coats. You know that song? It’s delphinium and orchid. I’m overtime. Let’s get it together once more to make it more than it could ever be moreover. The truth is. Having said that. On time and on our way, tell Mars and Mercury and Jupiter to move over: what kinda intelligence generates such sensations and sessions: b-side, arithmetic, osmosis, asthmatic, ash, and matter. Mother mother / be well be well. I keep saying it over bc I can’t get it outta my damn head. And I hear it so sweet full softly, like a low sizzle on stove. You’re an ago and then you’re gone, but you haven’t gone so far that it’s further than my comprehension, apprehension, hesitancy, talk of sex and the beautiful ones. Your photographs much more than factor: they are the outcome. And it’s all fleeting-fabric-like: underwater. That’s light light light. Ghosts in chorus laughing hallelujah. This making all hell break loose.



JOHN RUFO works on and through poetry and is the author of several deleted books. He lives in Riverside, CA. You can find him online at

Jennifer Fossenbell



JENNIFER FOSSENBELL‘s recent poems, proses, and other experiments can now or soon be found in Posit, Yes Poetry, Gigantic Sequins, Small Po[r]tions, Minor Literatures, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Moonshot Magazine, and on The Volta blog. She co-translated poetry collections by Vietnamese poets Hữu Thỉnh (Wild Under the Sky, 2015) and Trần Quang Quý (The Human Field, forthcoming from Word Palace Press). Jennifer is an online teaching artist for the Loft Literary Center, and currently lives in the suburbs of Beijing, China.

Joshua Aiken


We Watched Roots in 8th Grade

Here’s the rundown. You spend 5,000 days as a specter in the suburbs, listening to Ashanti and Maxwell, coloring yourself in and scribbling yourself into the very sketchbook, which erases you. This is how race in America works. Somewhere, on the bus, on the walk home from school, in math class, in your advanced reading class, in the library, on the debate team, in the locker room, in the bathroom, in line at the water fountain, on the stage at the end of year the ceremonies—somewhere, at some point, on some day, you are the only black person in the room. And, more often than not, you’re learning from someone white. Or you’re not. Euclid is not the only thinker a person should know. So let’s say you’re not the only black body dangling in monochrome space. Someone has still scraped your tongue. Taught you a language where the word good refers to the good school, which refers to being white.  You know that the school you go to is the best school in town and the predominance of whiteness is true in a numerical sense. Thus the school you do not attend is either a bad school or a bootstrapped school or a lucky school or another rationale for the here-now of life. You start watching Friends. You misunderstand Hurricane Katrina because you live in a place where you can misunderstand. You delete Luther Vandross from your mp3 player because there is not enough space. Which way does the double arrow point? Why is what is good, good? Who is alive and who is a good? At some point the black boy dropped in the 21st century bangs his head against history’s swollen door; history being the silence of every classroom, every classroom being the locale in which he cannot be understood. He is a set of questions. They are buttressed by his textbooks, enhanced by his television set, compounded by newspapers, enhanced by other manifested destinies.  These questions unearth him; they constitute the night. Police officers covered up killing a disabled black man in New Orleans the year he is in 8th grade but this is not what he is meant to know. These are his hours, these are the unraveling of his days. The people he sees in the world who are poor or sick look like him. The people we are to be afraid of look like him. Or look like a faith or like an entire continent or look like a “not from here.” Not of the settled state. All of this is to say this is how the groundless work. How the swingset after a certain hour isn’t a safe set of swings. How we fashion a lexicon of dreams. Of choice. Of false promises that he will inevitably learn. Racism texturing his living. History: never the point, Human: never how the black boy in the 21st-century can be encountered. There are no chalkboards in him. Just droplets. Just vinyls, just unlivable tunes. Milliseconds. Or thousands of days. In truth, he learns alone. Abandoned, untethered, and alone. Outside of the schoolhouse, a tree falls. Sonically, he is alive. For there are other ways, always echoes, sounds underneath sounds. He learns by looking at the portrait of Jesus—who is black, always black—which his parents place in the hallway in every house they ever live. How necessary it is that this is a thing they do. How quietly the past speaks. How important it is how we learn. How we listen. How urgent it is to believe that we are worth being saved.




Soil, Sediment, & the Song

when? when does blood trickle
backwards, sudden furling of flora
that has already bloomed? how
does life re-enter the body? myth
of a creation, but the casket is real.
i regret ever thinking that blk boys
in the ground need beget a thing.
give life back to the blk boy, bite
into the empire and give our lives
and our living back. the tree from
which he is hung is what produces
the casket in the grave. stop using
this world to kill us. it need not
flow this way. god, will you shake
us? will you admit the thunder is
yours? please ruin us, us perimeters,
us allowances, us who spend energies
on anything but. please ruin us?
please ruin us, so all of us can finally




Drawing Flowers on Burning Linens

Sketching on my skin again. Postcards to my severed hands. Splitting hairs. Scanning the skin. Army men. Marching the terrain, crawling, crawling, crawling. Walked all over. Grab the mirror and tell it: show me exactly what I want to see. He loves me, he loves, he loves me. And soon enough the devil’s claws weaken and wilt. Soon enough bed sheets are not a place to hide your limbs. I told myself I was deserving of love today. I told myself that destruction would not destroy. I took a look at our dry crumbling earth and prayed to the rubble. The world once whispered my body a lie. It said: you, body, you are not true. And then flowers bloomed. They lined the way. Out of my bedroom, past the sun room, towards the dark wooing moon.



JOSHUA AIKEN is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer whose work has been featured or is forthcoming in publications such as Nepantla, juked, Winter Tangerine, glitterMOB, Assaracus, and TENDERLOIN. He won the 2016 Martin Starkie Prize for his poem “Disappearing Act(s)” and is a proud alumni of WU-SLam, the spoken word poetry community at Washington University in St. Louis.

Peter Milne Greiner


Call the end an end but we never can

precisely All

that human touch is all

too real now Avoidances, storm

clouds gather their intentions

and compulsions and compulse and reason

and ungather Steady seismographs

measure inexorable stresses

Iron Ages spread

across the lost hemispheres

I walk the gardens in search of ritual

Instead I find the cure for the ingredients

of public domain

There is no public

but the ingredients

are the domain

Unrandomly the waves

send their events

through the food chain

Logic lodges its sign

in my obediences

and the sign remains

there like a hieroglyph It resists entering

the courtyard mosaic

The sign drifts

through limestone, through citied cliffs,

through my millennia-feeling minutes

Medicines, mesas

Cottage bedding

Fossil that records the subtle traumas of speciation

Sunlight off the sea fades the wallpaper

I circle down slowly through a layer of vapor

to the city, to the dormant volcanoes,

to the ruins

of cities that face the ocean and refuse

to speak

Pain relief is painful

Escape, agony

Paradises offer up their fruit but I hate fruit

I leave the Earth-half of horizon as blank as it must be

to satisfy everyone All that is human touches the other

magnetic Poles

out there

Frozen beaches, gales,

desolation murmuring its antilogies to endangered animals et cetera

The grains of sand in those beaches number

in the thousands, thousands

There are more grains of sand in those

bleak beaches than minutes I have spent

in desperation searching for a way to get

back to them,

but not much more, not for much longer

Because I’m starting to get it

They’re escape routes

Stationary stationary

I can hide everything I’ve done and said there

as words, but not words like these

This desert is unprotectable

Projectile is a type of weapon

Gyres are a type of guidance

Birds of a desert mock me forever

My illusions lecture me about how real

they are and I listen to be fair and professional about it

When I was a stoner I dreamt of long red bricks

They weren’t bricks

They were places in the floor

Small places

where you could fall through if you were microscopic Stuff like that

is all it takes to put fear in me fleetingly

Barely, here is my substance

Barely, here is my data

Barely, here is totality’s defeat of spectroscopy

Sad walls Built by aliens A touch-all

I built these buffers, these buffers that

crisscross my empire like aqueducts I planned the sacred

cities myself, I planned their

sacred platforms, their centers and excavations,

their lairs and their hoards,

but my plans were not approved

When I was a roofer I dreamt of diverted sheets of rain

We’re not here and there’s nothing there except a vault

and if that’s a vault this is a strange tomb amongst many

rupturing in the Earth like an appendix and if that’s a vault

this is a pond and this is a pool with a degree of abandonment

JG Ballard could be proud of

It is so huge

It is so immaculate

I look down at the immaculate floor and up at the ceiling

and that’s my own special domestication of special relativity,

my own special eyrie from which I generalize fear

Pyramid Plant, Cathedral Plant, Macreduct

I would call the perfectly good explanations flawed

Aliens, too, infrastruct my vanity, my famous plumbing,

the sleeves I keep my records in

“Place is completed through the word,” Marc Augé reckons

Fancy words for division

Rupture Fault Chiasmus

protrude from the body

like cribbage pegs


is something unknown

about the difference between things in general

What is it I wonder dismissively

Runner-up flag designs for my other

country, the archipelago

The canali run through it there, too


Quadrants of sovereignty

Outward to something like aether,

like ocean that accepts them with

questions, allegories, tell tale signs,

fabulous reluctance

Every pyramid has a capstone that

makes the enemy your name


PETER MILNE GREINER is a poet and science fiction writer. His work has appeared in Fence, Motherboard, Dark Mountain, glitterMOB, and elsewhere. His first full length collection, Lost City Hydrothermal Field, will be published later this year by The Operating System.

Moss Angel Witchmonstr

from Sea-Witch


Wood-Witch existed as a collection of parts. She was never at any point in her life all together in the same place. Wood-Witch’s personality was contained in a red stone that lived for an incredibly long time underneath a desert. No one but this stone ever got to know her. A few other parts of her were made into things that played important roles in the lives of others. She was never dead, but what qualifies a witch-god as “alive” is anyone’s guess. Wood-Witch never existed in a way that could amount to anything like a concept of “experience.” She was a god all the same.



The end of a thing might not feel like an ending. It can be abrupt or drag on. Water-Witch felt like her whole life was part of a movie that should have been over a long time ago. The plot had arced & things had long since been tied up & she was an unnecessary character. This wasn’t true, though. Most of us don’t know what our own story really is.

Water-Witch met Strawberry-Witch when she was working on a pot farm in California. This was after it had been legalized & the two of them were both doing trimming work there. Water-Witch thought Strawberry-Witch was adorable immediately & told her so. Strawberry-Witch, who always loved a compliment, started giving Water-Witch all kinds of attention.

One day while they were working alongside each other, they heard cries from far away. The other workers went to see what was happening & so Water-Witch & Strawberry-Witch joined them. About an acre of land next door to the pot farm had fallen into the ground, leaving an enormous crater & a giant cloud of dust. A little girl was in the middle, leg clearly broken & people were trying to save her, though the edge of the crater kept crumbling every time anyone got close.

A neighbor saw Strawberry-Witch & Water-Witch & recognized them for what they were. “You! Witch-Gods! Help this girl!”

Water-Witch looked at her feet. Strawberry-Witch tried to explain. “We can’t. We can barely do anything.”

The other pot workers agreed. Water-Witch & Strawberry-Witch were some of the worst workers on the farm. “What are you good for, then? What is a god, anyway?” the neighbor asked.



The little girl died. They couldn’t get her out of the pit, & the edges kept crumbling. Water-Witch & Strawberry-Witch held hands & cried. The crater stayed a crater. Others began to emerge in the area as well. There was apparently a system of caverns beneath the whole region that decided now was the time to collapse. Everyone felt the instability. Strawberry-Witch & Water-Witch began sleeping in the same bed. They did holy things with their clits & asses & mouths & held each other with their arms & legs. They kept each other safe as much as they knew how. They did a ceremony for the little girl, which was really a ceremony mourning their inability to save her. They were not the kind of gods who could save her & this thought made them feel as unstable as the ground they walked on.

Strawberry-Witch eventually went back to where she had lived before. Water-Witch cried & hugged her & they made plans to meet again. Water-Witch continued to work at the farm for the next few weeks. During that time her evenings got strange. She was very, very lonely. The loneliness was a fist in her chest that wouldn’t unclench.

Water-Witch stayed at the pot farm until they told her to leave, so she packed her things & drove to her sister’s house. Her sister wasn’t home. The door was unlocked in the back so she went inside. Where the living room couch usually would be there was a banana slug the size of the living room couch. Everything else was just as she remembered it. Don’t leave me, the slug said, twitching. I am so sorry, said Water-Witch. But I have to. I don’t have anything at all.

Water-Witch drove on to the coast. Reality got thicker. She realized she was trying to create any feeling inside of herself other than fear. She killed herself in her mind over and over. Why am I even here, she thought. This is all hurt. At the beach there were thorns that stuck in her tights. The whole planet spun slowly. It’s not important or interesting. Death as a stopping place. She felt her tights rip. They were already covered in sand. The world is dying & nothing can help it, she thought. How am I a whole person. I can’t do anything at all. I’m barely here as it is. There was sand in her mouth. When you squeeze any skin hard enough the sun comes out. It’s my fault. What if it could be over in a way that’s no big deal. It’s not important. A stopping place. It started to rain/it got too cold/she walked to the car shivering. This isn’t because of anything.


Water-Witch’s least favorite thing about herself is that she keeps waking up. In all truth mornings were the easiest time but after awhile it all slid into each other. Mornings slid into afternoons, slid into evenings, slid into times when everyone was sleeping & “cold” became an immersive physical/psychological experience. Water-Witch learned what to do to make time move slow or fast but never figured out how to make it go away. No matter how much time passed, there was always more of it. Water-Witch thought it was kind of fucked up, honestly.

Water-Witch decided to call Strawberry-Witch on the phone. Water-Witch cried to her. She said she missed her, & that things had been terrible. She told her about the bottomless feeling of doom that wouldn’t wash off. How it settled in after dark. How dark kept coming earlier as winter came. Strawberry-Witch was so sweet. She made plans to see Water-Witch again. They talked of doing things together & for a second Water-Witch thought she could be a person, but the phone call ended & Water-Witch found herself staring at her hands again, flexing her fingers, imagining her skull splitting on concrete.


MOSS ANGEL WITCHMONSTR is a transgender writer and artist living in Oregon. She is author of four books, most recently Sea-Witch v.1 (2fast2house, 2017). You can follow this project here.

shelley feller

land use interpretation triptych

land use interpretation triptych

land use interpretation triptych

land use interpretation note


Voyage, Voyage

Voyage, Voyage

Voyage, Voyage

Voyage, Voyage

Voyage, Voyage

Voyage, Voyage


Voyage, Voyage



SHELLEY FELLER is an ex- figure skater/gallery gay. they’re the author of the chapbook, TANGLED BANK & daily bugaboo jubilee (Letter [r] Press, 2016), and their most recent work can be found in Puerto del Sol.