Jean’s Memory by featured artist Jamila Clarke


      My ring-calloused fingers
      trace circles on your back
      while you whisper into my ear
      about how your legal name
      is actually Southern California Trouble.

      You keep your tabs of acid
      in a copy of The Coming Insurrection.
      I want to be pressed tightly
      in-between all the darkest parts of you.
      I want to meet the ravens
      that circle around your pupils

      while we gaze at each other like prey,
      something to sink our teeth into.
      Your talons carried me across your city
      before I woke up soaked in you.

      Worn, sleepy-eyed, stripped,
      plucking feathers from my teeth,
      sweating out the night.
      Our heat is a curious accident,
      maybe a planned mistake.

      I can only imagine you
      ripping scraps from my clothes,
      tearing bits from the sheets to all your lovers’ beds,
      shredding all your letters,
      weaving it all into a fabric of memories,
      a warm nest for you spend nights dreaming in.
      I never hesitate letting you have these pieces of me.
      I can’t help but watch you molt
      as you dream of your wild flight.


      After Bucky Sinister

      there she was,
      watching the trains

      in all their lumbering stutter,
      all half-head-shaven & cut-shirt-stud-jacket.

      “i love you”
      came out of my throat

      like unmentionables from a purse,
      spilling onto a subway car floor.

      she starts every day
      as the brightest afternoon in January,

      managing to be shining crisp stillness
      amid soaked gusts of Winter.

      She stirs from a rickety throne-room
      and gathers her infinite summer,

      the sun rising
      as she paints herself royal.

      when my Kentucky sour mash sweat
      mixed with the March mud

      her clutched fist stretched out my hoodie
      as she pulled me up.

      optimism left my blood last Autumn,
      replaced by a calloused caution.
      but when I see her crying and apart,

      in a Midwest living room
      disappearing into the folds of couches,
      all I want to tell her is how much better life will get.


Brandon Speck

I am 23 year old anarchist writer with a bad case of the feels. While I started a path in writing by authoring heavy-handed academic nonsense, I inherited poetry after I found my deceased grandfather’s chapbooks and learned that he competed in poetry slams in his seventies. Currently, I am wandering around the country, where I’ve developed an awful case of athlete’s foot. My home is in Portland, OR where I hope to find some ointment. I am also a member of a shadow society of reptilian shapeshifters that control global finance. Too bad for you.