The Blog

During the Middle Ages

Camille Guthrie

O God I am so fat
I cry all the time
A kitten scrubbed with a toothbrush online makes me sob
I’m so heartless seven species of bees
Are now endangered and I didn’t do a thing
Didn’t even send any money
To anybody doing any good
And I can’t lose any weight I skipped yoga
I’m so hot all the time so broke
So pathetic no wise investments
Should’ve bought a 7-Eleven on a busy corner
When I was seven or eleven
Nobody wants to lick my neck
Nobody wants to hold my hand at the doctor’s office
Nobody to grow old with me I’m so crabby
To pluck my beard feed the cat I don’t have
And read me endless Russian novels at night
All the ones I still haven’t got to so greatly depressing
Where are you handsome? Are you
Driving in your car to come visit me

Dune Song

Elaina ​Ellis

Towards the height of the mountain
Was the question of gifts
And who should get to keep them 

I sat between a downward slope—steep as no
—and a climb I couldn’t make except to crawl
I crawled on sand and sweated in my hat  

Though G-d believed I crawled for G-d
I crawled to know the height of my own rage
I carried myself I cursed myself up 

Slid down—and named the day adoption day
I didn’t bring my gifts to G-d 
I kept them all 

I crawled I stood I fell 
I kept them all


The Creator Takes the Stand

Noah Baldino

I see I see but that’s not
the worst part I can’t
help anybody They have ideas
of heaven I didn’t give them
I just wanted them to have
fingernails and blades
of grass Do you know how impossible
to replace a single blade of grass with
its own particular folds and edges I didn’t mean to
make these perishables before
I invented foresight See
in the beginning there were
limitations Humanity was just
a knot in my throat Now even
the courtroom sketches
accuse me
I am mudslide murdered infant smashed
glass sparrow I have wreaked
no small havoc
I’ll plead guilty
if it saves just one socket
from a knuckle or returns every
long-dead parent Objection Objection
My guilt changes nothing I forgot to create
This world keeps happening

We Might As Well Be Hovering

Christopher Citro

I admit it. I don’t know what kind of stone
is underneath us all. I’ve lived years here
but it tends not to come up in conversation.
Somewhere people stand on pink quartz
when they stand in their backyards, pink
gins in each fist, a pink sunset pressed
against the sky. That's nice for them.
New York City would be squat if not
for the granite beneath all those fashionable
people and even the mole people who live
in the subways and have all-white eyes.
Here the grass does okay. Snowmelt
sinks through. There’s a tallish building
every once in a while. Our cars are many
colors and so are our children's small
electronic versions of cars. But what are
we really walking upon? A seed bank
in Norway holds a repository in case of
global catastrophe. Even North Korea


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