Lee Levinson lives in Jersey City. He tweets @schlock_jaw
Bryce Jones is a former child comedian. Email him at email@example.com if you would like to be pen pals.
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novels, Yeezus In Furs (Dostoyevsky
Wannabe, 2018), Napalm Recipe: Volume One (Dostoyevsky
Wannabe, 2017), Police Force As A Corrupt
Breeze (Dostoyevsky Wannabe, 2016) and Acid Shottas (The Ledatape
Organisation, 2014). He was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is
currently a member in Snake Milker. An archive of his
writing/artwork/music can be found at shanejessechristmass.tumblr.com.
Mike Corrao is the author of Man, Oh Man (Orson’s Publishing) and Gut Text (11:11 Press). His work has been featured in publications such as 3:AM, Always Crashing, The Collagist, and The Portland Review. He lives in Minneapolis where he earned his B.A. in film and English literature at the University of Minnesota. Learn more at www.mikecorrao.com &
My mother said that I should bathe in oatmeal
So I do
thick baths gray with powder, sticking in clumps of snow
and I dip in so that I no longer itch
Rhode Island, 1892
For Mercy Lena Brown
After you die, Lena, you will freeze
until the neighbors unearth you
open your chest, your breasts
split to either side. In your heart:
blood–frozen. Your lungs, shaped like wings,
will yield once, collapse, and won’t rise.
Learning to write again.
I See My House, My Field
after Marianne Boruch
My son lives there now, in his winter
like a husky dog burrows in snow.
Most of the rooms (yes, I can see them from Florida)
are muted by cold, and the furniture
is still the maple my mother bought the year
she had her affair with my father.
DURAS (THE MUTE)
“Writing also means not speaking. Keeping silent.” M.D.,Writing.
MD is mute. She throws her voice into the text and there, her voice, resides. There, in the book, we hear her screams, we hear her weeping. But alone, in her giant white mansion, she speaks to no one. She paces, endlessly, the only sound, the sound of flies and death emanating from within the cracked walls.
Untitled [Elegy For the Memory of a Relationship]
It isn’t the space
the closeness of knowing
somebody so well
we hear their heartbeat
or the aperture of life
squinting one morning at a time,
but I freeze right there,