Origin Story
︎︎︎ Alana Joblin Ain
︎ Sept 12, 2026
I come from exploding bottles of seltzer and uncontrollable fits of laughter from high-cheeked matriarchs who left drafts of suicide notes in their desk drawers. From Manic Panic and purple
8-hole Doc Martens and jeans several sizes too large to hide any trace of my developing form on the way to the orthodontist. I am from everything tastes different, especially the tomatoes and the bailiff who said Bring down the Jew as my uncle walked handcuffed past his father and my dad asked later Why didn’t you say something? Born from the runner-up of the Farrah Fawcett look-alike contest and speech therapist turned Shaman and crystal amulets strung in the moonlight. I was created from more magic than sadness, more mercy than loss—but sometimes it is a tight race. Descended from You can’t keep a good woman down and daydreams that take over the whole damn day. I am shooting stars across the black evening sky and Now that’s a horse of a different color. Prayers recited in the exact same order each night and Put another dime in the jukebox baby. The mythology of Manhattan and deals I made with God in the desert that I still need to make good on.
Alana Joblin Ain is a poet residing in Austin, Texas.
Beware of Blue
︎︎︎ John Eyck
︎ Sept 11, 2026
The
Most illegible color
Is
Light blue.
However, in many countries
Blue
Is the perfect
Color.
With such
A lively field, people can-
Not easily dis-
Criminate between small objects.
Perhaps the more
Colorful an
Object is, the more it is
Eternal,
Natural, obvious.
Most illegible color
Is
Light blue.
However, in many countries
Blue
Is the perfect
Color.
With such
A lively field, people can-
Not easily dis-
Criminate between small objects.
Perhaps the more
Colorful an
Object is, the more it is
Eternal,
Natural, obvious.
Drydocks
︎︎︎ Paul Franz
︎ Sept 9, 2026
This spring day, autumnal
still with its rotted leaves:
pavement an interlace of bricks the color of meat and spoiled meat;
that garbage bag the wind pulled inside-out,
flapping from the can’s rim, like a spent condom, flagging...
so little a thing, to live, when it comes down to it.
The drydock that a month ago, dehiscent,
beckoned today is
brimful, as if calling away from tasks,
as if nothing were left undone.
still with its rotted leaves:
pavement an interlace of bricks the color of meat and spoiled meat;
that garbage bag the wind pulled inside-out,
flapping from the can’s rim, like a spent condom, flagging...
so little a thing, to live, when it comes down to it.
The drydock that a month ago, dehiscent,
beckoned today is
brimful, as if calling away from tasks,
as if nothing were left undone.
FOR DISPLAY ONLY
︎︎︎ Aaron Fagan
︎ Sept 8, 2026
When I tried to be as clear
As possible to make a point,
Your small hands showed me
The less I say, the more it will
Mean—in your eyes it takes
A long time to walk home,
Water the garden, and open
The door where I will turn
To kiss you as our bodies
Go on talking into the night
Without us there to umpire
These unnamable motors.
As possible to make a point,
Your small hands showed me
The less I say, the more it will
Mean—in your eyes it takes
A long time to walk home,
Water the garden, and open
The door where I will turn
To kiss you as our bodies
Go on talking into the night
Without us there to umpire
These unnamable motors.
Aaron Fagan is the author of Atom and Void (Princeton University Press, Princeton & Oxford, 2025), Pretty Soon (Pilot Press, London, 2023), A Better Place Is Hard to Find (The Song Cave, New York, 2020), Echo Train (Salt, London, 2010), and Garage (Salt, Cambridge, 2007).
Also by Aaron: INSIDE WORLD
INSIDE WORLD
︎︎︎ Aaron Fagan
︎ Sept 3, 2026
What a kid I was.
Practicing violin
In front of a roaring
Fire. My old man
Walked in. He was
Furious. We didn’t
Have a fireplace.
Practicing violin
In front of a roaring
Fire. My old man
Walked in. He was
Furious. We didn’t
Have a fireplace.