Natalia Panzer

Natalie R. by Natalie P., a Play in 12 Acts


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NATALIA PANZER is from Auckland, New Zealand; she currently lives in Brooklyn, NY as a resident alien of the United States; she builds, edits, and contributes to, a gastro-poetic website of art, writing, and data; she runs a home-based gallery space called Refresh out of her apartment in Sunset Park; she co-runs Glass Press with L.A. Warman, LAYM with Theodore Cale Schafer, and Lynn with Michael Squeo; she writes about contemporary music for Tiny Mix Tapes under the name Cookcook; she has work forthcoming in the second issue of Your’re magazine.

Ela Thompson

// how to read an [en]gendered equation

// in which: i am an integer
// a trans life is actually the main function
// time is a cyclical loop
// where i can actually exist where conditions are true

int main ( ) {
int a trans-experience= mine;

// this is a nested do/while loop
// a list of demands
// a list of necessities

do {
count<< “our names, our pronouns in spite of
our appearance, no matter
your cis opinion”;
do {
count<< “speaking out against those who
would reject our personhood— consider
defending our right to exist”;

do {
count<< “listen

} while ( conscious); }

while ( breathing);

} while ( safe);
count <<

// too often find hands outstretched into white void
// we trip head long into silence & oppressive vibrating dark
// my love, my love, my love, will she wake tomorrow
// into her beautiful dissonance? will i in mine?
// if she walks through my door a year from now— not a ghost—

return a portrait of a trans-person still living;


// the drought

void printmessage ( )
count << “& when I look at myself now
it’s the same— stomach
acid rises into that esophagus
& i’m already disassociating
myself from that body“;
do {
count << in the mirror loose self, dissolve
in ripples of liquid glass melt
} while (disassociating);

//how many times
//did i stretch cotton
//bandages over
//[my] chest that spring?
//attempt to divine
//gender w/ a dowsing rod
//from beneath
//caverns of flesh?

while {
count << “we weren’t speaking,
but your hair was flood water
rising murky out of your skull;
that couldn’t look away kind of
disaster beauty.

perhaps it was your willingness
to live w/ painted fingernails
& makeup & ballet flats
over your unaltered flesh
that drew me /n“;

// i forgot we lived in a flood
// plain &
// when it began to rain,
// the ground was too dry to absorb
// the water & so it welled up
// & pooled on the surface.


// dark houses

void printmessage ( )
count << “her body is a dark house,
ephemeral whisper—silhouette
of what it should be/ could be

she stretches shadow arms
through ill fitting flesh & wonders if a body can feel belonged in “;
do {warm summer sun
w/ white smiles
& hands clasped around daisy chains
& — & — billowing dress on the threshold & —
& — data corrupted — &
} while (in flashback);

int main ( )
int her words = whispered in empty rooms
count <<
“maybe i will tear that flesh open
make a void where i’m missing one

my body is a dark house,
atoms vibrating slow/ quantum shift
& slip between
d i s g u st & a c c e p t a n c e
/of shape/ “;

// unhappy unconscious, uncomfortable, unhoused
// in wild & untamed interior waste

// i once lived on a street of dark houses
// made dark by people who had once stopped by & tore out all the fixtures // some of them were well meaning:
// cultural marketing of drugs/knives/surgery as “successful remodel”

// i have seen people evict themselves from their houses
return houses that 1) didn’t fit or 2) were haunted or 3) burned down;



ELA THOMPSON is a current MFA poetry student at George Mason University, and is the poetry editor of So to Speak, a feminist literary journal. A few of their honors include: winner of the 2017 Mark Craver Poetry Award and finalist of the 2016 Jane Lumley Prize. Their work has been featured or is forthcoming in Hermeneutic Chaos, The Heavy Feather Review, Crab Fat Magazine, Spy Kids Review, and elsewhere.

Ed Steck

from An Interface for a Fractal Landscape












ED STECK is the author of The Garden: Synthetic Environment for Analysis and Simulation (Ugly Duckling Presse), The Rose (with Adam Marnie, Hassla), sleep as information/the fountain is a water feature (COR&P), Far Rainbow (Make Now Books), DoorGraphicDataRecovery (orworse press), A Time Stream in Spaces: The Cultic Parody of Time-Induced Capital (West), and The Necro-Luminescence of Pink Mist (Skeleton Man Press). His work has been exhibited nationally and internationally, most recently at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art. He is the editor of Theme Can, an online art and writing publication. He lives in Tampa, FL.

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.