A video poem by Indira Allegra
Indira Allegra is a poet and interdisciplinary artist whose work explores forms of queer intimacy, text, trauma and racial identity through performance, video works and handwoven textiles. A 2012 Lambda Literary Fellow and Voices at VONA Alum, she has contributed works to “25 for 25: An Anthology of Works by 25 Outstanding Contemporary LGTB Authors”, “Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art and Thought”, “Sovereign Erotics: A Collection of Two Spirit Literature”, “Konch Magazine” and “make/shift Magazine” among others. Indira reads and performs work in the Bay Area and New York City. Her experimental videopoems have screened at film festivals internationally. In the Bay Area, Indira’s textile works have shown at the Alter Space and College Avenue Galleries. She is currently completing her first collection of poems entitled Indigo Season.
by Jon Bennett
I told the property manager,
“that little guy that carves
Buddhas in 310,
fix his sink, OK?”
The Chinese wood carver
had been filling milk jugs
with tap water
in the communal bathroom
for 3 years
I knew he had crazy rent control
and was scared of bugging the landlord
but I was sick of it.
A week later I saw him
being carried down the stairs
on his son’s back,
his things piled in the street.
I would’ve asked
where he was going
but I don’t speak Mandarin
I didn’t want to know.
Jon Bennett is a San Francisco poet. His work has appeared in 13 Myna Birds, The Blue Hour and Horror Sleaze Trash.
photo by Alessandro Piana Bianca
by Pattrick Trotti
J.D. Salinger makes an appearance on “To Catch A Predator: North Woods Edition,”
Charles Bukowski caught at the local OTB trying to steal someone’s winning ticket,
James Joyce auctions off his eye patch on eBay to help him in between books,
Ernest Hemingway argues about guns in front of a studio audience on “Piers Morgan Live,”
Jack Kerouac admits on “Oprah” that the only reason he championed Neal Cassady was because they were lovers,
Franz Kafka is arrested on suspicion of arson while trying to get rid of his final manuscripts before dying,
F. Scott Fitzgerald is taken to court for his role in the death of Zelda;
Truman Capote drops his notes of In Cold Blood and writes about the trial, rough draft title: Death in the Jazz Age,
All the while Jonathan Franzen is secretly contemplating starting a personal Twitter account; wondering if the next great American novel can really be titled hash tag.
Writer, editor, student, Patrick Trotti lives in Tarrytown, New York.
photo by BookLife
by Steven Armstrong
The Emperor’s guards move through the village tonight, carrying bags of rare black rice as they always have every year since I was a boy. Said to have healing properties, our dying village elder could benefit from even one grain.
I step out from my hiding place on the large bushy hill, crossbow drawn. Heavy rain obscures my vision, but I see one guard I can take.
I pull the trigger; my quarrel sings a silent song and stings the guard’s shoulder. His bag drops. Rice spills. I run to collect some before the guards converge and darkness greets me.
Steven Armstrong lives in the Silicon Valley, San Jose, California, where he mainly works as a staff writer for an entertainment website.
photo by PostBear