by Ben Mitchell Each time I meet a grown man who cannot read, it comes in waves: First I see myself as a small child, and I am terrified by the enormity of the violence. I feel shame, begin to panic, hopeless, hopeless, hopeless, an impulse to scream, but I stop. I remember I can read. Crumbling as terror gives way to relief, relief to gratitude: Thank you, Sarah Mitchell, for not taking their word for it. Mrs. Landess who said it would be OK if I lost the crayons. And Mrs. Wassermann, She showed me the exceptions– neither leisured foreigner seized the weird height. And then, Mr. Meed who “liked” my paper. And::: Kate Haigne, especially Kate Haigne who would take us “to the river, our favorite prepositional phrase.” The tools to participate in the great human conversation are no small thing. So I write my truth, and try to understand the world, but tell me: where will I find the courage to keep reliving this stupid, futile battle? Each new generation trampled under the crush, and how to rise just long enough to cry out, “We are here, and we can see you.”
Poetry
Painting “New Jerusalem Landscape” by Ellen Lapidus Stern
1 min read
Painting “Two Sides of the Same Coin” by Ellen Lapidus Stern
by Corey Cdub Williams
If you knew me as far back as Noyes elementary, or as little as a month ago, you know. I change like DC weather. One day it's close to 60 degrees, but tonight the streets are covered in icy snow, and tomorrow the temperature will rise again. Am I a challenging man to be around at times? Yes. Have I done negative things? Of course. Do I ask uncomfortable questions, the questions that are going to piss off the world? Yeah I do. WHY? Because I don't fake about being this Divine person. I was caught for shoplifting back at junior high school and I confess I continue to this day. It’s compulsive behavior. I do silly things; it's a way to cope with my problems. I did drugs. I didn't see a purpose to live until I got injured. Especially after my father died. I was pissed at God for taking my father, just one hour after his aunt herself also transitioned. That was twenty years ago. I didn't want to sit in some African Son Rise Program. I didn't relate to those boys. I came three votes away from being the Deputy Youth Mayor back in 2000 when Norm had that opportunity to be on the radio. And one for Ruth – the most impactful adult in my life who pushed me to speak more because she knew I had potential to change lives. Mitchell always told me to keep writing no matter what I write, no matter how many people get upset – even when they all leave me alone because I push them buttons, I just keep writing. You don't have to like me, why, because I love me. Until I'm called back home and I'm done with this earthy vessel. I'm still going to be me. If you think you know, lol, you don't. Unless you took an interest in rocking with The real 1.
1 min read
Painting “Morning Espresso” by Ellen Lapidus Stern
By Lukas White aka HaZe
Man, I anxietize I'm stressing its what's eating me literate. Even in the literature but I just don't see how anyone can have givin in when I was so little I was just the kid consistently fixing his shit to piss correctly if eventually ever I'm never noticed for blowin up my own rich before I woke give a smoke to his ass hoping they still the golden known
Idk where my mind went man, I really wish I could’ve tried to vent then But I'm a coral mortal forced in its torture cell like a tortuous shell of course when you retort remorse just smells as the other torturous dwelled melons fell wit force to the floor convinced hells mixed up in this of course I'm pissed restrained But I'd be a retard if I'd leave a plain card as my spits remains
I ain't even know how I get through the oldest new I ain't talking to, You may man I'm just the common tool I use accused of every useless ruthlessness, no more tooths so truthful just no fruit under my music til I make its movements but It won't shake if people -side me sittin blank I'm aces still and make it up in a face with a smile
took it when I was tainted but that's my basics I made my game degrade the same as I engraved my name in cellophane the angel made with the devils name its HaZe again the darkest start to my anglaise I ain't taking trades for nothin still I guess it's why I'll be stuck an shuffling less I wake up one day amazed in a fade of what I made first turned into what I'd says worth
1 min read
W.E. “Bill” Drake is currently a student at Landmark College in Putney, VT. He was diagnosed with ADD in his thirties. He is also the present Editor and Chief of their literary magazine: Impressions. He has been published in other anthologies. He is an amateur photographer, and enjoys large and copious amounts of caffeine.
ll-fitting Suit
The world is an ill-fitting suit.
Lost, looking for mooring.
Sunset lost behind a storm
grey sky. Scattered,
leaves brown
after the dandelions first yellow.
Out of sorts. Misplaced. Left in order
in this Disheveled world
An ill-fitting suit
Looking for mooring.
Spring MMXVIII W.E. Drake
1 min read
Poem by Ben Mitchell
A Dog’s Tale
There once was a dog , who
lived in a house that only loved cats, At first
she rebelled – chased balls, rolled
in smelly dead things, and panted, her
tongue hanging out. But
the cat lovers shunned her, wouldn’t feed
her, and she became infested with fleas, so
she began to act like a cat, cropped
her ears into a point, developed
a fascination with yarn, but all the while reminding
herself it was only an act, just a way to
make a living. But one day it shifted. She
began to forget, believed she
was a cat. Her
eyes became indifferent. Her tongue
became dry and thorny. She
shunned dogs, revolted, tried to scratch
their eyes out with her clumsy paws.
1 min read
Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, eight chapbooks & publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among 1,609 others across 43 countries.
Decamouflaging
I would paint my skin
Into a colorless color, & I would dye my hair
Wear two blue contacts, & I would even
Go for plastic surgery, but if I really do
I assure you, I will not remove my native village
Accent while speaking this foreign tongue (I began
To imitate like a frog at age nineteen); nor will I
Completely internalize the English syntax &
Aristotelian logic. No, I assure you that I’ll not give up
Watching movies or TV series, reading books
Listening to songs, each in Chinese though I hate them
For being too low & vulgar. I was born to eat dumplings
Doufu, & thus fated to always prefer to speak Mandarin
Though I write in English. I assure you that even if I am
Newly baptized in the currents of science, democracy &
Human rights, I will keep in line with my father’s
Haplogroup just as my sons do. No matter how
We identify ourselves or are identified by others, this is
What I assure you: I will never convert my proto selfhood
Into white Dataism, no, not
In the yellowish muscle of my heart
1 min read
Jennifer Craig is a single mom, marketer and synchronized ice skater, living in the San Francisco Bay Area. Jenni practices mindfulness and writes about the highs and lows associated with living with anxiety and alcoholism and parenting with ADHD.
The Path to Alone
Out of site, out of mind
I've been here before
Traveled this path
And know what's in store
A moment passes,
Then two, then three
I look for a sign
But no one's thinking of me
The winds begin to stir
I can't find my breath
Ashamed of these feelings
I've expertly kept
My heart races fast
As the panic takes hold
Somebody, anybody
The world feels so cold
Alone and exposed
I accept my new fate
A storm withins brews
Yet still I hesitate
Little by little
Resentment rolls in
Happiness clouded
By bitter, cold wind
The fog grows dense
And I can't find way
Howling, whirling voices
Lead me astray
Turbulent waters
strike at the Earth
eroding her beauty
Engulfing her worth
But ahead in a clearing
A break in the clouds
The sun beckons warmly
To life beyond the falls
A life of serenity
A life of alone
A life to live proudly
A life all my own
The road won't be easy
Storms rage; winds attack
But once around the falls
I will never look back.
1 min read
Poem by Ben Mitchell
Elephants
When I was small, there were lots of elephants.
They'd walk in rows with sequined showgirls
straddling ornate furniture on their backs --
a woman with purple feathers for a hat
strung up by her teeth on a silver wire,
miles in the sky and dangling like a shark.
Back then you could laugh at elephants
or women hanging up like trophies.
I could rip off my clothes in the vegetable section--
take a shit right in my pants. What changed
in the years to come was an ever diminishing
circle of what was acceptable -- like a noose.
Some days I walk into the office and as soon as my mouth
drops open, a purple accordion
leaps from my lips and honks wildly around the room.
I must restrain it by clubbing it to death with a chair.
Or when you're wearing a tie and a big yellow giraffe
sticks its nobbly head from your left breast pocket.
It bobs with polka dots on its long neck, staring
blankly into the face of Doctor-Someone-Or-Other;
its humid nostrils fogging the good doctor's glasses.
What if eels or leopard geckos burst from his eyes
arranged themselves in rows, to dance the can-can,
on the parade ground at your feet.
1 min read