Welcome to
Let’s Stab Caesar!

untitled

Phyllis Green

the martyr

colin james

Painting myself into a corner,
I completed the footprint floor mural.
You’re home early, darling.
I wasn’t expecting you ‘til later.
However, conceptualize if you will
an ocean that needs crossing
at its narrowest point in order
for our species to survive.
While you are pondering this,
have a chew on some homemade jerky.
I salted the shit out of it myself
‘til almost blanched white.
It should remain like this
for an emotionally long time.

jazz

antondo

men of letters

antondo

which one are you

gloria glau

only because i don’t care for despise do i not care for the chosen ones. i feel biblical rage for burned toast. all my softness precedes the lone bee chasing sweet perfume into the schoolgirl’s neck. i am resolved to only love those i’ll never know today. i would give my heart to whoever is pointedly wanted but not particularly wished for. musicians who are minding their voice in non-soundproof basements — and their screams, too. singers who dream of crude crowds eternally crying out someone else’s name. comedians with no audience. audiences who just want to go home. unripe plums who persist with their shamelessly green behavior. writers with all the words but never the right ones. trained actors breathing in dust in decrepit rooms. novice jesters breathing out imaginary fire onto fogged mirrors. clouds who won’t resemble anything, nor recall anyone. bodies of water too small to be called oceans. bodies of water too big to be called lakes. bodies too round and irrepressible to be called rivers or dancers. teachers without schools. lawyers who can’t pass the bar and drink each other under the table instead. if i love you, which one are you. which rock star deemed such in the domain of flaccid senses. which one are you. how many. how darn often. out of those who try but are doomed not now, maybe later. out of those who damn themselves for caring too much, and too long. i don’t care for liars and that’s as close to honesty as it gets. i can’t paint a picture on command because i didn’t choose right place right time and time and place never chose me. the why too strong for the when and where and what and who, the scale broken in the middle. that should mean i’d give my heart to live my life but it doesn’t. it should mean i would die to hear its beat but i don’t. it hurts and i’m already sore. i can love any loser but me. i’m a sore loser trying to grow out an extra limb that will always be just near enough to be out of reach. the kind of sore losing where i can forgive fate but i can’t politely escort it out the main door. the kind of sorely losing where i can forgive the finish line for not being crossed, but i can never ask it to pack its bags and leave the room. 

untitled 1 & 2

remington annetta

the newest testament

matthew moniz

WORLD’S STRONGEST MAN

The lowest hanging fruit is orange. He speaks
and murders with the jawbone of an ass
slung loose between his ruddy citrus cheeks.
Imaginary power hair. Hot gas.
He sucks the lion’s honey, has his view
preoccupied by his encudgeled hand.
Just grab ‘em. Paunchy space-age Samson who
ties fire to a tale and burns the land
then recklessly applies, while on the course,
the paint that hides the smoke. A rouged-up clown
who starts with rambled, faulty claims of force
and ends by blindly pulling columns down.
With mucus in its head, the nation chokes.
Hysteria. And this is their new hoax.

WORLD’S WISEST MAN

He doesn’t overthink, this ruler who,
born licking silver, lacks a silver tongue.
Just grab ‘em. He’s scorned many wives. He knew
to sit, to watch his would-be rivals flung
to battle, spurring bones to holes. Red hat,
blue veins. Unsolemn Solomon, he blames
the test for answers, exercise for fat,
thinks smartness, knowledge, wisdom all the same,
builds temples to himself to hide the stones
of law, claims tax as tribute with a laugh–
he earned it, he accomplished this alone–
and cleaves a squirming people clean in half.
This stable genius shares all he sees:
a person, woman, camera, man, TV.

WORLD’S KINDEST MAN

This personal mean Jesus resurrects
an insurrection. Zealots lap his blood
while feigning claims: stigmata. Stigma. Sex.
Just grab ‘em. Watch him stride atop the flood
of bodies. See less carpenter, more carp
whose gaping mouth can multiply the rage
toward those who kneel for justice, not the sharp
patellas strangling neighbors. Violence. Phage.
The country suffers. Touch – its wounds are real.
Despite disciples spreading words of hate,
upon his death, no angel will unseal
the cave where lying statesman lies in state.
Don’t cross him who imprints his face on veils.
‘Cause everybody loves me. I won’t fail.

hypermangled kisses

ami

striptease

higor brunieri

ballet

ds maolalai

busy as moths
around porches at midnight, 
the mcdonalds back kitchen 
swarms with a self-
contained movement. 

purpose, boils slowly
and suddenly bubbles;
hands catching objects, 
moving them,
carrying them. 

it’s business, careful
as a slow game of soccer
and played just as slowly
and as well. 
things shift; everything shifts
like waves in a high tide
moving sand
to new patterns. 

it’s afternoon 
on saturday
and my girlfriend
wants nuggets. I stand 
and I lean
by the counter. I fold
and unfold
my receipt. 

proctor’s palace

jennifer pappalardo & Jaribel marmolejos

turkey in the straw

jodi bosin

that trailer where she says “i’ll never tell” at the end 
sort of sings it 

we don’t know the movie but the line is embedded in our heads 
you know you’re a 90s kid when 

brittany murphy is buried in the hollywood hills somewhere 

and every day the ice cream truck drives by at 3pm 
it’s silent for a second when the song ends  

you think it’s finally fucking over but then it starts again 

i am always slightly unsettled 
always adjusting my environment  

reaching inside, pulling out new darknesses  
i don’t want to be disarmed by every tiny kindness 

i don’t want to think that everything glittering 
will just become a trash heap 

someone who leaves 
an after all, a downbeat 

i want to believe in Real Love and a moral arc  
that’s bending 

i want so badly to be present 

i guess i’ll have to settle 
for the wanting of it

joaquín lezcano thinks fast

eli s. evans

There could be no doubt that Herr Müller, the shopkeeper, was the purveyor of the finest goods in the county; meanwhile, Joaquín Lezcano was an avid procurer of fine goods, which explains why every Tuesday, when he did the shopping, he made sure to stop by Herr Müller’s place to procure a few. But one such Tuesday, there was a dispute: something was said, or not said, or one of them wore a certain expression on his face to which the other took offense, or Joaquín Lezcano fingered the merchandise in a manner to which Herr Müller, in his role as shopkeeper, objected, in so doing characterizing Lezcano’s fingers as “greasy.”

Ultimately, we cannot be certain of the exact nature of their dispute, but what we do know is that before departing in anger, Joaquín Lezcano declared, “I’ll never darken the doorway of this lousy five-and-dime bargain basement again.”

“And I’ll hold you to that promise!” came Müller’s sharp retort.

The problem, as far as Joaquín Lezcano was concerned, was that he still wanted to procure Herr Müller’s goods. After all, Lezcano was, as noted above, an avid procurer of fine goods, and Müller, as similarly noted above, the purveyor of the finest in the county. His candles – well, what couldn’t be said about those candles, which were a feast for all the senses, and not merely the olfactory? Then there was the matter of his neckties; other neckties were simply unworthy of the name “necktie” when measured against Herr Müller’s. Meanwhile, his marbles shone like carnival lights, and the quality of his ham hocks was matched only by that of his hammocks. To sum it all up, if a resident of the county did not procure goods from Herr Müller, that resident surely could not be deemed a procurer of “fine” goods, from which it followed, Lezcano concluded with existential horror, that inasmuch as he was, by definition, a procurer of fine goods, if he ceased to procure goods from Herr Müller, then he would be a procurer of fine goods who was also not a procurer of fine goods, meaning that, each term canceling out the other, he would be nothing at all!

Yet, Herr Müller, in addition to being a purveyor of the finest goods in the county, was known to be a man of his word, and he had given this word to hold Lezcano to his own with respect to never darkening the doorway of his exquisite emporium again. One solution Lezcano considered would be to always enter while carrying a powerful flashlight or even a lighted torch in front of his body so that, technically speaking, he would not “darken” the doorway as he passed through it. Unfortunately – Lezcano reminded himself – Herr Müller, who surely knew as well as he that his pledge not to darken that doorway, in the context in which it had been delivered, was not meant to be taken literally, would never fall for such a cheap trick. On these grounds, Lezcano devised another: to visit the neighborhood cemetery, exhume the cadaver of a recently deceased individual, carefully remove the facial skin from it and, from that skin, fashion a mask that molded closely to his face without taking on its telltale contours such that, wearing it, he would be able to enter Herr Müller’s shop unrecognized. 

So it came to be that on a certain Monday night without moonlight, Joaquín Lezcano, all dressed in black like some vulgar thief, prowled and slunk about amongst the headstones and monuments until coming at last upon the temporary placard marking the spot where one Olaf Mendelson freshly lay – Lezcano himself had read in the newspapers of how the poor fellow had died just the other week from an ignominious combination of indigestion and internal bleeding after consuming an entire goose, bones and all, in an effort to impress a particular young lady by whom, like a chin by the tip of a feather, his fancy had been tickled. Now, with a few quick flicks of his garden spade, he easily unearthed the unlucky lover’s body; then, employing only a shoehorn and a pair of cuticle scissors, removed the skin of its face with fastidious precision. 

Fastened behind his head with several clothespins of the antiquated variety, the skin mask fit just as Lezcano had hoped; but when he wore it to Herr Müller’s first thing the next morning, the crabby old merchant wasn’t fooled at all. 

daycare

thea berman

an amen, an omen, and an almond

roman d’ambrosio

Two in the morning. Two twins are awake waiting at their apartment complex. They live near the beach. Surfboards and beer cans decorate their living room. They spent the day surfing, riding about sixteen good waves while they were out. After drinking, the brothers wait. Hayden is looking at his phone. 

HUNTER. Is she gonna come? 

HAYDEN. She said she’s walking up. 

HUNTER. It’s not gonna be some catch a predator sting, right? Like she’s legit? 

HAYDEN. I don’t think this is illegal. Well maybe. No one’s gonna know, calm down. 

HUNTER. Well I don’t know what you’re posting or sending so it makes me nervous. 

HAYDEN. I have it covered. 

HUNTER. You’re just a cheesy person. Make us sound like an amusement attraction. 

HAYDEN. You’re just a try-hard. You try to be all dark and artsy and it fails every time. You wanna get like tribal tattoos, it’s cringe. 

HUNTER. I’m the cringey one? You’re the one working out in the sunshine outside like a literal mental patient. 

HAYDEN. At least I do workout outside, you stay addicted to the ocean it’s gonna give you some disease or shit. 

HUNTER. Better than losing sleep for muscles. 

HAYDEN. Just get up early, Hunter. 

HUNTER. Just get up early, Hunter! Just get up! Like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing?! You’re an asshole. 

HAYDEN. Ok she’s here. Just be cool.

HUNTER. Wait. Whose pictures did you use? 

HAYDEN. Does it really matter? 

HUNTER. Well whoever’s picture you used should open the door so she’s not scared. 

HAYDEN. Fine. You answer it. She said she’s into Greek stuff. 

HUNTER. Greek stuff. 

HAYDEN. It’s like a filter? Think it’s more for boy-love shit. 

HUNTER. Greek, like zodiac signs? 

HAYDEN. I don’t know. 

HUNTER. Why would I care about zodiac signs? Most girls are Libras anyway.

HAYDEN. I don’t know! Can you open the door? She’s here. 

Hunter walks to the door and opens it. A horny girl enters. She’s wearing an angora sweater. She kisses Hunter long.

KIM. Hi. 

HUNTER. Hi. 

KIM. I’m Kim. 

HUNTER. Hunter. 

KIM. Yeah you are. 

HUNTER. We’re glad you could come. 

KIM. We? Oh yeah! Someone to watch. Who’s your friend? You look so much alike. 

HUNTER. Oh that’s my brother, Hayden. 

HAYDEN. Hi. 

KIM. Oh… Brother? 

HUNTER. Yeah we’re twins. 

KIM What!? 

HAYDEN. Didn’t you see our profile? 

KIM. Umm yeah. Okayyyy. I thought “twincest” was maybe a joke username or something. 

HUNTER. Jesus. 

HAYDEN. It wasn’t a joke, it was…you know…telling it what it is. What’s…What’s going on here. 

HUNTER. This whole thing is a stupid, man. 

KIM. No no, don’t worry. 

HAYDEN. We’re twins and we wanna fuck I don’t know what’s so confusing about that. 

HUNTER. Please stop, Hayden. 

HAYDEN. Why? 

HUNTER. It’s weird! This whole thing is weird! 

KIM. I’m actually pretty horny right now. If you are ok with it, I’m ok with it. 

HAYDEN. Great. 

HUNTER. Really? 

KIM. Yeah! I’ve had threeways before. Sometimes planned, sometimes not. You’re not gonna scare me. I kiss dogs on the mouth and men in the ass. 

HUNTER. We’re not gonna be doing that tonight. 

KIM. It’s ok! I like abnormal sex. Closeted guys share me and call it a bonding moment. 

HAYDEN. No one’s closeted. 

KIM. Oh ok then. That’s fine. I’ve had sex with gay guys. 

HUNTER. We’re not gay. 

KIM. Ok! I mean incest…that’s… 

HAYDEN. Incest isn’t gay. It’s…I mean this isn’t really incest anyway. 

HUNTER. Sharing a girl together isn’t gay. 

KIM. I’m not saying it’s gay.

HAYDEN & HUNTER. We’re not gay! 

KIM. I know I’m not saying that! I’m just saying it’s not the most normal thing to do. 

HAYDEN. Why are you one to judge? What girl is on Grindr? 

KIM. There are bi guys. And I’m the only girl so I get all the attention. 

HUNTER. And that’s what matters, right? 

KIM. Oh fuck you. 

HAYDEN. We are really twins but if that scares we get it. 

HUNTER. Dude. 

HAYDEN. What? 

KIM. It’s not that scary. You’re full twins? Like from the same mom? 

HAYDEN & HUNTER. Yeah. 

KIM. Identical? 

HAYDEN. Yup 

HUNTER. One minute apart 

KIM. Does that really matter? 

HAYDEN. Not really 

HUNTER. It does to me. I’m the older brother 

KIM. Really? 

HUNTER. I’ve always thought that way, haven’t you? 

HAYDEN. No, I never thought that way. 

HUNTER. Ok 

KIM. You both live together? 

HAYDEN & HUNTER. Yeah 

KIM. Both inseparable? 

HAYDEN & HUNTER. Yeah 

KIM. You guys have any girlfriends? 

HAYDEN & HUNTER. Nah 

KIM. How do people tell you apart? 

HUNTER. I have a scar right here. When I was three I busted my head open. I drank my own blood. Dad freaked out. Not me. 

HAYDEN. I’m cleaner. 

HUNTER. Bovine eyes. 

HAYDEN. In the womb they think I got more nutrients. 

HUNTER. He hogged the pla 

HAYDEN. I hogged the placenta, that’s what everyone says. 

HUNTER. Why are you talking over me? 

HAYDEN. Cause I have something funnier to say. 

HUNTER. Everyone says it. 

HAYDEN. But when I say it it’s funny cause it’s about me. 

HUNTER. …Whatever.

KIM. You workout around here? 

HAYDEN. We like to look after ourselves. Grooming up and working out. We go to the beach, surf. The lumberjack thing seems to work so we don’t shave. 

HUNTER. Cause you get a rash. 

HAYDEN. Yeah when you shave and it mixes with saltwater you get a nasty rash on your body. Or you get an ingrown hair. We’re probably gonna go get a wax or something to make it easier. 

KIM. Have you guys ever jerked off together? 

HAYDEN. Hunter taught me how to do it. 

HUNTER. I was in the shower and I had some soap on my dick and I kept rubbing it real fast and I couldn’t figure out why it felt so good and it kept feeling better and better and better, I got more soap, better and better and better, and this stuff starts spurting out of my dick. I had just, you know, blown my load. So I said Hayden, Hayden you gotta try this man. 

HAYDEN. He says I gotta try all this like rubbing my dick like he’s telling me to and so I get all this soap on my hand and move it around and I get harder and harder but I don’t know why and Hunter is telling me to go fast

HAYDEN. Hey fuck you she doesn’t need to know that, shut up… It worked. 

HUNTER. Yeah… Well you see it’s a twin sorta thing we fight all the time. But still love each other. 

KIM. Right… Is this your first time doing something like this? 

HUNTER. Yeah. 

KIM. Nothing before. 

HUNTER. Nope. 

HAYDEN. I mean one time in college. 

HUNTER. When? 

HAYDEN. In college 

HUNTER. Yeah in college yeah 

HAYDEN. One girl made us kiss each other so she’d show us her titties. 

HUNTER. Yeah 

HAYDEN. But other than that no nothing. 

HUNTER. No. 

Hayden touches Kim’s sweater.

HAYDEN. What is this? I like it. 

KIM. Angora. 

HAYDEN. That’s a brand? 

KIM. No, it’s the fabric. It’s what makes it so soft.

HUNTER. It’s almost 2AM. You still have your makeup on? 

KIM. Of course I do. Even if I’m at a guy’s place till five in the morning I’ll keep my face on. It is so delicious to wear makeup all night long. 

HAYDEN. Where did you get it? 

KIM. The sweater? I think it’s from my ex. His love language was gift giving so I couldn’t say no. 

HAYDEN. Nothing says I love you like an angora sweater. 

KIM. That’s what I thought. But still it was sweet. 

HUNTER. We’re not weirdos. And I think you being so open is a little kooky. 

KIM. Of course it’s kooky. Sex must always have a story for me. It’s the only way I was taught. 

HAYDEN. Taught? Who teaches things like this? 

KIM. My ex. It’s completely normal. I always let men choose me. I’ve never chosen a man in my life. 

HUNTER. But you chose us. 

KIM. No I didn’t. I first fucked when I was thirteen. I developed early. 

HAYDEN. Who was that? 

KIM. A neighbor. An older man. He was a Vietnam vet. Had a gray beard and a ponytail. When I was doing some gardening work for him he invited me inside. Told me how pretty I was. He started telling me the legend of Medusa. And he was such a storyteller. He fucked me right there. I was a rag doll. 

HUNTER. What did he do? 

KIM. He impacted me. Overthrew me. Like horses crushing freshly frozen grass. He had an unmade bed that looked like seaweed on a beach. Isn’t it crazy how easy old myths can turn into foreplay? 

HAYDEN. When you were thirteen? Isn’t that against the law? 

KIM. The law is an opinion with a gun. And what are consent laws but only opinions? Puberty is a fact. 

HAYDEN. Yes it is. 

KIM. You got a wild side. You’re a wild child. I can tell. 

HAYDEN. Sometimes. 

KIM. This dynamic you have. Twins. Castor and Pollux. Apollo and Artemis. Romulus and Remus. It’s very ancient what you have going on. 

HUNTER. Doesn’t feel ancient. 

HAYDEN. But we know each other’s thoughts. 

HUNTER. Not everything. 

HAYDEN. But if I had a desire, or an accident, or even a true secret, I’d never be alone in it. 

HUNTER. A lifelong partner. 

HAYDEN. A born best friend. 

HUNTER. So what do we want to do? 

KIM. What if we wanted to make love, but the word “make” didn’t exist?

HAYDEN. Uh-huh? 

KIM. I’ve always been turned on by brothers. Now that I’m seeing you, I think twins can be worth something. It is appealing. To join them. To make three. Twins and three ingredients made Rome, you know. 

HUNTER. Three ingredients? 

KIM. Yeah. An amen, an omen, and an almond. Would you like to hear the story? 

Hayden & Hunter nod their heads. Hunter kisses Kim long. She turns and kisses Hayden. Hunter takes off Kim’s clothes. Hayde strips. The twins worship Kim’s body. Hunter puts his face into Kim’s chest. Hayden kisses her neck. The twins grab each other’s arms and dig into Kim’s body. Kim recounts the legend of Romulus and Remus.

KIM. Rhea Silvia, a princess of the land, was raped by the wargod Mars. While she was ravaged, the young girl prayed to Juno, so she wouldn’t be killed. An amen. She became pregnant and Juno promised to watch over her. And she bore two sons. Romulus and Remus, sons of Rhea Silvia, niece of the tyrant King Amulius. Favorsons of Mother Goddess Juno. Now, their uncle was a paranoid man. Lest his reign be challenged, the tyrant commanded the total abandonment of the boys. Saved and suckled by a capitoline wolf, the twins were raised by a shepherd and overran the king.But they fought between themselves over which fertile ground to erect the new city. So they played a challenge of fate. To decide the winner. 

HUNTER. Fate? What do you mean? 

KIM. A game of augury. Judged by the gods. 

HUNTER. Ok… Augury? 

KIM. Yes. 

HAYDEN. I’ve never heard of augury, I don’t kno 

KIM. Omens! Omens! Interpreting the omens! It was a very common practice back then. Romulus won, and in defeat Remus died. Juno, muched pleased, came to Romulus, and consummated his rule over the new city. And with these loving acts, she blessed Rome with almond trees. A sign. Of establishment, and progeny, and disguise. I can put an almond in my pussy if you wanna see. I think I have an allergic reaction so it gets puffy, but it feels kinda good after a while. 

The brothers kiss Kim, then each other, they keep undressing. Fade to blackout.

End.

Agora é sua hora de entrar na minha vida (Now’s the time to step into my life)

Higor brunieri

this revolution will be cold,

sav franz

that’s what they said,
as they pointed at charts and the talking heads smiled all pearly
and groped each other’s cocks under the table in congratulations,
and all the folks at home, gathered around their chattering altars
hmm’d and shook their heads while papa told junior to turn up the
damn heat.

it even broadcast up and out to Heaven,
where seraphim and ophanim laughed it all off,
cus they’d placed their bets long ago–
and winner takes all!

all the while we, the rubbed-raw romantics and I, burned Wilde
and roses and rhapsodized sonnets into the stagnant air
to keep our lungs warm while we stood in line for star wars 12, or 20, or 42
we’ve lost count. but who’s to care,
who’s to blame?

why not dance? we spew over the flames,
this revolution will be cold, they say, we say,
throwing more poetry onto the pyre,
watching the words lift up and up and up
then freezing,

and falling to our feet as black snow.
just you wait: one day in some chrome future,
they’ll all scoff and call us brutes, sacred scientists
will tap their pens and ponder over scriptural data and scream
EUREKA!

then the Historians, with their pitying smirk-smiles will call it a Dark Age,
and they will laugh, arm in
arm with the many eyed
angels, because they all know
where we went
wrong!

contributor biographies

Ami (they/them) is an Indian-American author, artist, designer, and boxer with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from the California Institute of the Arts. They are the Co-Founder of Gutslut Press, as well as the author of Confessions of a Baby Vamp: Letters to John Milton (Gutslut Press ‘21), Lipstick[less] Mania: A Ritual For No One (Bottlecap Press ‘22), Into Oblivion (Sweat-Drenched Press ‘22), x( )-id </3 (Trickhouse Press ‘22), and In Residuum (Kith Books ‘23), among others. Their work can be found in numerous places, including Peach Magazine, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, and Inverted Syntax, with more forthcoming in Fence. Link: linktr.ee/hotwraithbones Twitter/IG: @HotWraithBones

Antondo: Born June 18, 1974 in Cape Schmidt, Chukotka. Went to the Saint-Petersburg State University of Culture, majoring in Art History. Spent six years working at the state Hermitage Museum. Exhibitions: Kraniche Club (Hamburg, 2011), The Anna Akhmatova Museum, Rumyantsev Mansion (St. Petersburg, 2015), etc. In 2022, exhibitions were to be held in the Baltic States and the northern German.

Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski’s Porch Press and a book of poems, Resisting Probability, from Sagging Meniscus Press.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, most recently Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022)

gloria glau is italian and angry. she lives in rome, where she can be found eating delicious carbs, yelling, and trying to learn art — in whatever order that may come.

Higor Brunieri (b. 1997) is a Brazilian multi-media artist interested in the intersection of text, video and painting. Author of a book of drawings, photographs and short stories edited in Brazil (Aparições, 2022), he is currently finishing writing his master’s research on Georges Bataille and surrealist/fetish photography. Instagram: @hbrunieri.

Jaribel Marmolejos is a Newark-based artist who can be found on Instagram @jaribelthegreat.

Jennifer Pappalardo is a filmmaker based in NYC. Find her on Instagram @jenniferlynnpappalardo or her website jenniferlynnpappalardo.com. 

Jodi Bosin is a Philadelphia-based writer and clinical social worker with poetry online and in self-published zines. Find her on the front porch and on Instagram @jodi_bosin.

Originally from the DC area, Matthew Moniz recently received his PhD in poetry. Matt’s work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Crab Orchard Review, Meridian, Tupelo Quarterly, Fourteen Hills, and minnesota review and won Poetry by the Sea’s Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Crown Contest prize and the SCMLA Poetry Prize, and he has grown in workshops with Tin House and the Community of Writers.

Phyllis Green’s art can be found at ArLiJo 123 Paper Dragon, Rip Rap, Inscape, Cinematic Codes Review Superpresent, Talking River, and other journals.

Remington Annetta is a Los Angeles-based photographer and sculpture artist. Her work ranges between sculptures about overcoming trauma, staged self portraits about mental health, and concert photography. Her ongoing projects include sculptures about justice for Black women and girls and music festival photography. Follow her art, reach out, or collaborate with her @remyannettaphoto on Instagram.

Roman D’Ambrosio: NYC-based playwright and founding member of the Adult Film + Theatre Collective. His work has been published in “Apocalypse Confidential,” “Cars & Women Magazine,” and “American Vulgaria”. With a degree from University of Detroit Mercy, Roman explores themes of politics, relationships, and sexuality.

sav franz enjoys long walks on the cracked pavement, having absolutely nothing to say in too many words, and committing rituals to bacchus. their work has appeared in Sarasota Herald-Tribune, Grinkin, and ëëN, and forthcoming in Poetic Sexploration. they call the hellmouth home with their partners and two cats in winston-salem, north carolina. 

Sophia Popovska is a poet and translator currently based in Germany. Her other work can be found at Circumference Magazine, Tint Journal, GROTTO Journal, Farewell Transmission, and Expat Press, among others.

Thea Berman is a painter and photographer based in New York City.

The Editors