︎︎︎ John Ling

︎ Mar 23, 2023

Dear, distance is the answer—so they say,
the pricks back home. I’d kick them in the teeth
for thinking I would let you live a day
without me. I don’t care we’ve got no heat
and roaches in the pantry—I’ll buy wool
and glue traps. If I bring home two glass eyes
will you agree to wear them? We could stroll
through Soho on a Sunday, like our lives
were guiltless. You’d be in a navy suit
and I’d wear something black from Saint Laurent
while having gin and oysters—one day soon
I’ll make that kind of cash. For now I’ll flaunt
these dollar bangle bracelets—anything
to show the world that you were once a King.

John Ling lives and works in New York City. @johnlingmusic

222 means an angel is trying to send you a message

︎︎︎ Maria Hardin

︎ Mar 18, 2023

hey bro
it’s fine bro
it’s the end of time bro
i knew this was going to happen bro
you’re acting surprised bro
tell the girlies sup bro

Maria Hardin is a Swedish-American artist and poet. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Fine Arts at HDK-Valand. Her writing has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Wigleaf, Gutter Magazine, Ligeia Magazine, SPAM Magazine, and elsewhere. She can be found at


︎︎︎ Bronwen Lam

︎ Mar 15, 2023

He calls her a whore and she calls him a cab
We won’t be doing this again they both agree without agreeing
What are you doing he says
Sending you off she says
Giving you a send off she says

She pushes his head flaked with dandruff into the back seat
Like a cop he says
Like a cop she says

The cab driver smiles like a cop, like a king or a mayor
Where to boss, he says
She leans in close
Fingers and nails and hair and perfume
Over the window, through the window

She says
Straight to the dump, no detours, not stops
She thumps the trunk of the cab
Like a horse
And they’re off

Bronwen Lam lives and writes in NYC. Her work has appeared in The Drunken Canal and in emails to her mom.

The Perfect Storm

︎︎︎ Conor Truax

︎ Mar 13, 2023

The weatherman points
To a perfect storm that’s always
Been there anyway;
Particles from a dog-piss puddle
Percolate through the cloudy wisps
And down into the atmosphere
Where we all live. Not the dog though
The dog is dead, put down because
of an osteosarcoma, One of the rare cases
among the canine population. He was
such a good boy, Beautifully trained,
Always eating grass with love,
Right after the pesticide.
(I dreamed once that he could speak to
Me, Or maybe he could all along
And we just didn’t care to understand).
The vet was devastated,
Really, it was his last straw.
Death, Despair, Diabetes
Doctor of so many animals
With so little understanding of human beings
Themselves. He died by suicide,
I heard
Wait… No
That was the dentist…
Wait… No
That was on the TV show.
But dentists do have the highest suicide rate
of any profession A friend of a friend…
of a friend’s mom Shared in a Facebook infographic.
That’s why my uncle got out, Had to,
Lost all his fingers in a snowblower accident.
It was a free snowblower, a Family heirloom,
And it shot Unc’s fingers out the chute
Like he was trying to touch God.
The fingers fell eventually, as all things do
Back into the snow, where they stayed preserved
Until they were Sewn back onto his hands.
That Frankenstein motherfucker. The fingers don’t work
Anymore but they're there, the same old fingers,
In the same old place, with different connective tissue.
The blood was never recovered, couldn’t be.
This is something no one seems to mention.
The pint that sprayed on the white glass ground
looked like so much at the time
But now it’s totally gone
And nobody cares to wonder where it all went?
Did it sink deep into the ground,
toward a pore water core,
Or did it evaporate up to the sky
Where the cirrus wisps film now
With particles from the dog-piss puddle
That freeze into the snow that falls
ever so gently into my childhood mornings.
“Don’t eat the snow!” My teacher yells at me
But the snow is too white to be from anywhere
In this world,
So I swallow it all anyway

Conor Truax is a writer in New York.

Also by Conor: New York Love

Filtered Fascia

︎︎︎ Maura Ford

︎ Mar 9, 2023

I like vanity for its gall,

its lushness a far cry from evergreen

Slippery appeal teased out

for as long as time grants elasticity

Selfies clump up on a social feed

with the consistency of collagen protein powder

$37.99 (monthly subscription)

And for what?

Capital gone goo, inflated to the ether

of some artificial cheekbones

We’ve all got the same aphasia now

Yep yep yep, bubblegum smacked lips

Thrown into injectable sharp relief

Maura Ford is a writer, among other things, in Chicago, Illinois. She studied literature at Trinity College Dublin. Find her on the internet @iwantsomeMaura.

Also by Maura: Selectively Sweet, Flora, 100 Degrees on Summer Solstice