Cole Solinger
︎ NOV 30, 2021

all day breakfast
rotten man’s gut

desktop porn virus
shaver corruption

what hasn’t become sport

a car’s passing headlights

its spectral pull

the energy returned 

the exhausted crown

its cloth bathing
bell making
sophisticated love

Cole Solinger is a poet, curator, and editor of annual poetry journal: As Of Late. He lives and works in San Francisco, California.

The Snakes Came Back

Lora Mathis
︎ NOV 29, 2021

Consider a spotlight      Point it to the grass
There, where the two snakes are winding together

Their bodies luminous like thread stitched in and out
Their scales looping into one song

The grass flush with cold night
The sparks picking up under the moonlight


Scene 1: Two women across a plastic table       smashed clean
Slipping off jealousy and smiling politely
One orders tofu the other says I too walked through the night
and did not return

Scene 2:
I wear her face under grim overhead light
She has hers on too — brighter
Together we tell the story of a star


While standing in your dad’s kitchen waiting for the kettle to scream
I see two snakes weaving through the dry grass
Their scales winding together in the lush moonlight
Bits of sparks shaving off their scales



               cut !



The snakes came back last night
I tried to feed them    street names, corner houses
They slid through the grass, refusing to look at me

To drive in the direction of the past
To listen to the kettle calling and hear only hissing

Lora Mathis is a poet, artist, and student living in Oakland, by way of San Diego. @lora__mathis

let dry

Talina Meinheit
︎ NOV 23, 2021

since you,
the city’s
nature too


Talina Meinheit grew up on a farm in Lyon County, Iowa. She currently lives and writes in Minneapolis.

Also by Talina: Out

Boom Beach, Maine

Nolan Allan
︎ NOV 22, 2021

Gutted lanterns leak yellow

oil like the needy

urchins my hands

pulled from the ocean, torn

apart before you. Us: beachside,

sky: gray, you: empirically

observing the cold

wet pieces I threw aside after

they drew blood

from my hands, you watched

in mild disgust, or

love, little difference

to be had, and not

that it matters but

my hands can still feel

how it felt to crack us

open the echinoderm to reveal

the soft pentagram

shaped sexual organ I

carefully removed and without

bothering to wipe the viscera from

my hands I swallowed

it down in one gulp and smiled and thought

about one day eventually

when all the seas will

rise and accost our cities

and one day eventually the sun

will grow and accost

our planet and one day

eventually the moon will fall back into us

when it finally realizes nothing

has the answer, except the only dream I

ever remember: a man leaning before

a crumbling black marble dais

on an endless stage covered in thick fur rugs

all decorated with pale roses and bundled orchids

already dying, in need

of water he slumps and rages

on his people's behalf against

the forever night's encroaching

memorandums and as he reaches

his apex, his kid icarus

moment, he retches and liquid

the color of old growth forests

spills down his chin, deep dark

viscous stuff that pools and stains

the thick fur rugs that cover the endless stage

the crumbling black marble dais

sits upon, him prevailing, refusing

to clean off the ill humour, avocado skin

colored bile built inside his own body

without a care in the never lasting world

we tried to make together, though

in keeping with this being a dream, unctuous

petals emerge from the flowers maddeningly, stop

motionly, growing and falling and growing

again, they pile

they/themselves beautifully

across the crumbling black marble dais,

matrimonial traditions taken

to extremes the crowd couldn't've imagined,

the crowd: they feast on songbird

drowned in stale cognac and eaten

whole: guts, beak, face, everything, often

served with mushrooms quietly existing under pine

needles, haloed omelet color flesh

imbued with the stink of red

cinnamon candy left in the woods

for centuries, the way we used to

smell, and if you're reading

this, it's too late,

and if you're still reading this,

you're probably thinking like

wow, this is a really vivid dream

he had and I’d be like yes, it was

a really vivid dream

I am having, wow is right.


Nolan Allan is an artist from North Carolina. His work has appeared in Peach Magazine, Prelude, Hazlitt, and many others. His chapbook ‘Mountain Dew’ was published by Bottlecap Press in 2017. He lives in a city near the woods and can be found online @nolanallan.

Mouth-ammunition of this island

Joshua Martin
︎ NOV 16, 2021

bombarde                                 dart
                     lion slays
bolts                        ,             powder by
                           means                  avoid
          catapult –        fields
                      sister’s                   ram—
        (ed)              (ing)                     bough
                [preserved w/ salt] regional
crooked                             crowding
                      frequent          (p)lace
reach                           voyage              sweet
         nestled                    marine
yclept      bestriding
            obstinate                     lurking
    belly                  (pantry eyesight
                                stale gymnast
                                spittle tankard)=
                       TOP                  sail            S
          mythologists            pound
pitch         sprightly          parcel
         parts              seraphim 
ashore             hightTOP
             picaroon[yon cranny
            plumCAKES          shame
florid                         :::   nogoodnik
       historic          DeeD    snarl(ing)
                     prig            under
SWINGing               porphyry        wretched
              cartographer            beseech        (!)
Beseech             (!)
                                     BESEECH (!!)
                            =ing portico
  humility                                            TomB
repeated                     repeated                     repeated
                   nose                          noose
           saith the hermit:::::

“flesh fears bastions perforce dingle—
      dangle,humming colossal thump
,secular species swam,vast and benumbed
  ,moon wry monks,hawks,island maul
,plurality reduced to wrought iron
                                                     ” heathens

          barens              hue                        marks
munch           mongrel             samurai



would                                   plunge


              loot                 fowl




                tapestry                    ,

                                   make plenty


Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia-based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press), and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, M58, The Sparrow’s Trombone, Coven, Scud, Ygdrasil, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, and Synchronized Chaos. You can find links to his published work at

He’ll have three poems in Issue 2.