Casablanca
︎︎︎ Jon Leon
August 16, 2022
Sometimes I close my eyes and picture the streets and I can't remember if it was the Blick Art on Market or the Blick Art on Canal or if they were the same place or if it was Pearl Paint. Was it San Francisco or New York? My memory is burnt. It puts me in a harbor town. There's crazy energy to it, like I don't know, beyond all. This song "Tugboat" comes on and this Romanesque arcade flashes yellow and red and the wet streets glow and ripple like Live Girls. Yea, the place I'd like to be is before now, before today, and all this talk about Europe, gin joints and exile because they won't accept us here. No, this was before all that, when you were like a Giallo model in split shadow, smoking all night through double-breasted dreams, stroking the hair from your face. Style never runs out of style does it, but it goes into hiding. They forget so easily what we never had to remember. That it's one continuous reference here. I'm dying for a drink. Any kind of drink. Any kind of place. Where did you go to? How did we do what we did?
Pozole Pot
︎︎︎ Elida Silvey
︎ AUG 15, 2022
I feel this well,
in the pit of my stomach
bubbling
It’s the size of a 12qt pozole pot
made of flat aluminum sheets, muted
I remember we bought it in Chinatown for 5 bucks
down by the swap meet one Sunday afternoon spent bobeando.
It’s full of hominy
and pulled pork, roasting
in the clattering sounds of familiar laughter
and crooning cowboys
mariachis made famous from black and white pictures,
the ones my grandma used to watch
so scandalously enamored
by their gentlemen’s uniform
I choke up mid-smile remembering the impermanence of what’s ours,
forced to remember
I feel around the surface for something to hold
onto.
The ridge of metal shrieks,
so shrill it jolts the aunties
out of
wolf covered couch seats
into the mouth of a fire-breathing dragon
a cacophony of chanclas like galloping hooves
rush towards the finish line
an attempt was made to save something or other,
success was unclear
I sit back into the couch,
stiff as a board
as if I were a doll slotted into the wrong
packaging
with plastic edges lifting uncomfortably. I
wonder if they notice this too,
I ask the raw outline of bruised lips with
bejeweled teeth, gnawing incessantly
no answer.
I am never sure which parts of me begin or end
with memory
but I am so often lost in the limbo of the
indefinite that it’s become
my only postcode.
in the pit of my stomach
bubbling
It’s the size of a 12qt pozole pot
made of flat aluminum sheets, muted
I remember we bought it in Chinatown for 5 bucks
down by the swap meet one Sunday afternoon spent bobeando.
It’s full of hominy
and pulled pork, roasting
in the clattering sounds of familiar laughter
and crooning cowboys
mariachis made famous from black and white pictures,
the ones my grandma used to watch
so scandalously enamored
by their gentlemen’s uniform
I choke up mid-smile remembering the impermanence of what’s ours,
forced to remember
I feel around the surface for something to hold
onto.
The ridge of metal shrieks,
so shrill it jolts the aunties
out of
wolf covered couch seats
into the mouth of a fire-breathing dragon
a cacophony of chanclas like galloping hooves
rush towards the finish line
an attempt was made to save something or other,
success was unclear
I sit back into the couch,
stiff as a board
as if I were a doll slotted into the wrong
packaging
with plastic edges lifting uncomfortably. I
wonder if they notice this too,
I ask the raw outline of bruised lips with
bejeweled teeth, gnawing incessantly
no answer.
I am never sure which parts of me begin or end
with memory
but I am so often lost in the limbo of the
indefinite that it’s become
my only postcode.
Elida Silvey is a Mexican-American writer whose work focuses on exploring the edges of emotion, the importance of mundanity in representing love, and the splitting nature of living multiculturally. She self-published a book of poems and photography of her family home in Aguascalientes, Mexico, and has been published in The Horizon Magazine, Soft Qtrly, Sunstroke, and other local publications. You can find more of her work on her Instagram @elida.silvey or via her website refractionsinwater.com.
Also by Elida: Elastic Cold-Cuts
Playing Drums
︎︎︎ Anda Marcu
︎ AUG 13, 2022
You wish you could hit the drums
with the elegance of a thundering force that
shatters the distance from you to yourself
into sharp piercing pieces.
You wish you could hit the drums
with eyes fixed past the edge of the skyline
and mind thousands of worlds apart.
You wish you could hit the drums fiercely,
with your back straight and
shoulders gracefully arched,
your legs apart and your hair keeping the rhythm.
You wish you could hit the drums.
with the elegance of a thundering force that
shatters the distance from you to yourself
into sharp piercing pieces.
You wish you could hit the drums
with eyes fixed past the edge of the skyline
and mind thousands of worlds apart.
You wish you could hit the drums fiercely,
with your back straight and
shoulders gracefully arched,
your legs apart and your hair keeping the rhythm.
You wish you could hit the drums.
INSTRUCTIONS
︎︎︎ Katie Frank
︎ AUG 11, 2022
You need clean halls
you need to lick
the edges of your
halls clean
patrol them and
sing to the ghosts
you need to lick
the edges of your
halls clean
patrol them and
sing to the ghosts
Katie Frank is an artistic babysitter who lives in Queens. Her work has been published by Muumuu House. She's on Twitter @slackenin and Instagram @conniptionary.
Origin Story
︎︎︎ Joseph Cross
︎ AUG 10, 2022
Burning city
Childhood friend
Lost memories
Fading report
Sadness untold
Do it again,
If you can
We know that
Time skip
Time loop
Time skittering
Glitch skittering
Childhood friend
Lost memories
Fading report
Sadness untold
Do it again,
If you can
We know that
Time skip
Time loop
Time skittering
Glitch skittering
Joseph's poetry has appeared in Expat Press, Forever Magazine, and Silent Auctions Magazine. He lives in Easton, CT and grew up in Washington, DC. You can find him at josephcross.net.
Also by Joseph: you’re so you