Cover image: “Searching” by Jenifer Fox
Below, we have featured a small selection of work from Issue VIII. The full issue is available for online viewing with the link above.
In addition, you may offer a “tip jar” contribution to our PayPal account. All support is appreciated, as it helps keep this project spiraling out into the unknown.
If you like what you see in the issue, you may also want to check out our ongoing Maya’s Micros feature. As the name suggests, it will be curated by contributing editor Maya Highland and will exclusively feature micro-poetry and micro-fiction pieces.
If you are a writer or artist and want to be considered for upcoming issues, see our Submittable page for the current submissions that are available, including an entry for the cover and artist feature of our next issue.
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“Whereas numbers are signs, words are symbols, and therefore by their very nature equivocal; their ambiguity can be reduced but never eliminated. This bars them from the needle’s eye of absolute precision, but the loose ends that prevent them from piercing that eye endow them with a texture that numbers cannot match. Multivalent, irreducibly equivocal in intimation and nuance where not actually ambiguous in dictionary definition, words reach out like a banyan root system, as tangled and in as many directions. Folding and refolding in adumbration and allusion, they weave, veer, and seek out subliminal soil. No wonder logicians flee their meanderings in favor of fixed and adamantine glyphs. The despair of logicians is the humanist’s glory. From the adversity of verbal ambiguity, opportunity opens. The multivalence of language enables it to mesh with the multidimensionality of the human spirit, depicting its higher reaches as numbers never can.”
― Huston Smith, in Forgotten Truth
No Words
the flavour of rain
bears your face
I inhale
river sheared
trembling
from the black bough
I coil in, osmotic
emblematic rock
pleas for jeweler’s hammer
pine scented
I anoint my cheeks with ash
Newcastle
One spring day a weak sun
pierced the perpetual chill
of our rented flat in the north of England
and a beam fell onto the bedroom’s
moss green rug. On impulse
I bravely pulled the sock from one foot
and stepped into the narrow warmth.
The foot looked like a tree root
I’d wounded with a spade,
so naked-white and strange to me
my body seemed
near the end of the char-dark
winter I’d spent mostly crouched
close to an open coal fire,
toasted on one side, cold on the other
and damp all over, or,
any time I crept outdoors, choked
by the rancor of acid rain in my throat.
Expectations
not remembering yesterday not knowing tomorrow
we stumble on today
wide-eyed and curious
we trip over our own futures
towering expectations line the path we trod
backwards cartwheels — spin out of sync
confusion rules the day
we try to collect all reason try to manage truth
reality – a dream that does not sleep
one line says it all — we are lost
there is no answer no conclusion
we wander in dense fog
counting pennies for a dime the cost is far too dear
the toll taker calls our name
yesterdays have vanished — tomorrows never come
we must live for the now
I can no longer find my way
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