Some animals live for a long time
while others just take a long time to die.

DRESS WITH POWER (notes from last night)

p (a positive result | disease) = 0.99


a shiveditch sort


Salmon, graphite,
even a cave of
bats do I give to you.—

Oh, right wing baffles,
how do your windows
block so completely my
left wing?


Love, love,
I think
about the way
your honied defects
     manifest in
such frenzied, sweet ways.
What’s the matter
with your head, storm-ridden
and zolofted frenzy-maker?

Love, love-maker,
I think the thing that
is wrong is not you,

our perspective, the
bats in the
belfry of it,
the cuss words
yelled from church
pews to priests,
the rotten


The TV as orange-light spectator
the TV as orphanage light aquarium
the TV as electric homes at fireside
fireside, TV, the rotten caggabe
cabbage patch of little TV screens
the TV as blackface president
the TV as backwards precedent
the TV as bookend ricebowl
the TV as teleported visionary
visionary, pizzeria mama-mia!
it’s amoré eel


Mixed race couples, puffy-headed
babies in a fenced in living room,
basements where the laundry gets done.


        (know thyself.)
     (no thigh sells.) — (nori hell.)
                (no rye, elle.) — (nor, I, sell.) = 69.


a moon full of                    THE SCHOOL BUS AS FREEDOM
fried crispy things              OF EXPRESSION!
of biting a donut

he                 DAMN THE FUTURE!
reminds          THEY’VE POISONED THE
me               BREAD FLOUR AND
of               STOLEN ALL OUR FLUORIDE!              Free
Brad                                                                    money for panthers (!)
but                                                                  we give ‘em
British!                                                                  free money and when
:)                                                                    they come to take it we
                                                                  anesthetize them with a dart,                                                                  and steal their genitals to                                                             enhance our own flaccid
                                                                  virility! I WANT
                                                                  PANTHER POWERED
                                                                  BONERS TO INFILTRATE
                                                                  MY SEX LIFE LIKE A
                                                                  FLEET OF HORMONAL


     Carving  mere  talk  into
a  science
        of  decent
           love .


     with nitrile

By Abigail, Jeune, Carter, Ramsey, Lease, and Smack of Dorsal Fun


I met a pianist
at the felafel shop
on 85th.

He pointed to the sink
on the wall and explained that
Jews are supposed to

wash their hands before every meal.
That’s why there’s a sink
there. He kept peering over his

shoulder, “to make
sure the kids don’t run off
with my bike.”

By Matt Leece

Commencement Speech for Lost Souls and Restraining Orders

Collapsed in the hallway, you’re finishing finally
Disturbing the patrons, the suits and the aprons
You’re not even there yet,
Pulling all your hair out

They’re calling your name but you’re hiding in shame
It’s not just a symptom, the perpetual victim
You’re violence and I’m violins
Sever the tether, and let us commence

by Brad Allen


At the park
terraces do not exist
Except on the bottom branches
of trees—
xeroxing the fibers,
birds flee, ecstatic—
they collect their facsimiles and
carry them out into the city.—

ejecting smog to
their journey.

Attaca of the winter we spent answering questions about force and acceleration in physics class. To tangents we
                                think, filling up the time we have with limits.

By Harini Reddy and Matt Leece

A Deathful Song

I feel masterless and fey, given to nothing
but the wilderness that was not replaced by
the cities but rather left its night-time apparition
of trees by dumpsters in shadowed alleys.

I am convinced of my superior unlovability
like a feral cat,
or a barking alcoholic,
or the baritone voice of whale washed up on land,
sonorous and deathful.


Two Ramsies to the Deathful Life


Tell the angel
you loved well, but cross
your fingers.

The path with a
heart bleeds through its shirt,
through your life.


Below it all
is just fear, but who
is afraid?

From space, the ghosts
of stars stop and cry.
Who indeed.

By Eugene

To stay lost in a
sack of rice and little black insects,
exploring bogus philosophies like
flying carpets over a bad painting of your life.
Why does it bother me so much?

Instead you wake up covered in the same dust
that you made, layers of skin,
sloughed off, for days and months,
while the egg-headed children of my future
dream, unwoven and untouched.

Because I’m hurt, somehow, still,
you pointless leopard.

Ohit Shit Um

She’s wearing a golden blouse,
without a proper belt we had to find sparkly yarn
for her to tie her pants up with.

Now she’s telling me about lace
and masks with layers. She pauses—
a cool view on how to look at a really

bright blue, New York is really
inspiring in that way. We’re on a foundation that
we don’t know
how long has been here.

It’s all calm this morning.

By Harini Reddy and Matt Leece

Nine Oak Satin Bourbon

Well so also, she said, “this is gonna drink a terrible poem”—
cinnamon, she paused with a cup in her hand—
a cup with inside do.right.and.kill.every.thing.approved—
the em dash spoke to me in a dream
"if only it could balance, but it’s too abstract to balance"
There’s a specific reality in the circumference of a cup.

By Harini Reddy and Matt Leece

They’re doing construction upstairs

I wake up each morning
to chirping dogs who think they
have something
to say

if only they could find the
right words, it may just
be a dozen barks away,
the dove’s try to

translate—they pirch
on the walls outside my window
and wait for the contstruction
to stop, so they’ll have

a place to stay when winter
falls like a child down the steps
of the subway and
starts crying because

they landed on the wrong
platform. They’re doing
construction upstairs—
chamber music of nails,

of a New York cartel, every
morning earlier than the last
until one night they’ll

simply continue constructing
into cold crisp cockadoodle
eternity. It’s loud and dust
falls on my head from the ceiling.

By Matt Leece

B or maybe C side track from an album by Brad Allen that may someday be finished.

This Happened When I Was 24 
(experimental song by Brad Allen and Kenton Remmey circa 2009)

If I turn away

Can I make it through the day

without my best friend to play

zombie games

Without you, Eugene

what will happen to my routine

who will be there to go out for sushi

If I let you go

where I know you’ve got to go

will you still write home

from San Francisco 

I hope you’ll be okay

And you find a place to stay

Make a brand new home in San Francisco

Ill still be your friend in San Francisco

Another 3am phone recording for Eugene
by Brad Allen

I’m Stoned

I’m dry.—
That means I don’t have
any pot to smoke.

That’s what my Mother called It.
Pot. Dad told
you he went to the grocery
store—what are you smoking
pot again?

I’m dry,
but I’ve been using my glass
l o t
so there’s a thick
wax of mildly psychadelic tar
coating the inside.

I get ston-
ed, It
tastes like the s-

Rae Macey