︎︎︎ Adam Stutz

︎ May 27, 2023

From the bedroom window      I open these flags & rise for no one

The clatter is    wall-to-wall coverage    of my special-effects disaster   
breath measures    expiration     until my ideology evaporates

All my down-wind   utterances     turn into an up-town smoke of confusion
(or maybe justification)         mixed  takes fester into a spill    

So I write-up obscurity into line items:
1) severed wing sings on sidewalk for its sibling   
2) starving coyote stalks picnics for hashtags
3) sirens splits silence into a bomb of selfies   
4) teeth grind down to a chapel made of sand

I’m back to an eye of needles        hanging by a thread in white noise   
All I aspire to is a security blanket        for air traffic control

Adam Stutz is the Editor-in-Chief and Publisher of Broken Lens Journal and the author of Transcript (Cooper Dillon Books, 2017) and The Scales (White Stag Publishing, 2018). His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Prelude, Be About It, Deluge, Dum Dum Zine, The Pinch, Where is the River, Dream Pop, Cover, Ghost Proposal, INKSOUNDS, Only Good Poems, Heavy Feather Review, and can be found at He currently resides in Los Angeles, California.


little death

︎︎︎ Danielle Chelosky

︎ May 23, 2023

in my dreams you call me your
pretty little hole like
the kind you find in
the hardwood floor
of your childhood home.
my body suddenly disintegrates,
becoming a void,
a portal you can step into.
you reach your hand
in and pull out
a never-ending noose
made of colorful ribbons
and put your neck through it.

Danielle Chelosky is an editor at Hobart Pulp and an intern at Amphetamine Sulphate.


︎︎︎ Evan Laffer

︎ May 20, 2023

at my lowest
I admitted it was an honor
just to be nominated

and to the high noon sun
at its most moonlike

screaming down
"I heard you liked romance"

I would have said yes

even wanting is done poorly
on the first try

when the power failed
and the restaurant filled with smoke

I thought this could ruin dinner
and you thought this is my life

preferring to see it all as
something only half-owned

a good guess that’d been corrected

what an idiot thinks bitterly
about a pound of feathers

there was nothing I could do
to convince you
you were not loitering

we do our best

sharing a
park bench or bed
with equal tact

both could become more
but somehow
never after dark

morning sex
good I thought
part of your workday

across the table,
sitting on a
stranger’s ass

I looked
like someone
paying a bill

Evan Laffer is a podcaster and poet not necessarily in that order. He has lived in New York and Los Angeles and likes both. @elaffer

Also by Evan: who loves the sunrabbit rabbit

blame, cherish

︎︎︎ Holly Brindley

︎ May 18, 2023

everybody gone
oh dear so special

Holly Brindley is an Australian artist.

Also by Holly: “Exotic”

monkey with a telescope

︎︎︎ Ryan Aliapoulios

︎ May 12, 2023

the sun looks like a germ
from the right perspective

and you are always leaving me
banana peels              all over

Ryan Aliapoulios is an LA-based writer and editor. His poems have appeared online in Corporeal and are forthcoming in Bullshit Lit and