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“you ask the man who kneels
over your crumbled body
what the moon
over New York sounds like.”

—   From “The Topography of,” a new poem by Keegan Lester up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“The farm hadn’t been used as a farm for many years, but the father didn’t have a good word for the unused acres, so he thought of it as a farm anyway, that being the only word he had. He’d planted his daughters there, but they’d borne no fruit. He called it a farm though that was the exact thing it wasn’t.”

—   Get creeped out by “On the Terror Traditionally Associated with Developing Real Property,” a new piece of flash fiction from David Connerley Nahm up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

Important to tell her

how the wind makes headstones from ripples

in the lake

—   From “The afternoon is polite,” one of three new poems by Hafizah Geter up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“Oppressive governments of all ideological stripes have a long history of locking up dissidents with opposing views, and the production of mental illness has historically functioned as a disciplinary mechanism for hierarchical societies. Due process? One psychiatrist, with a wink to a second can take away someone’s freedom indefinitely. You may be initially locked up for being a threat to yourself or to others, but once inside, you won’t be released until you can perform ‘normal.’ Thoughts become crimes, punishable by forced restraints, chemicals, and seclusion. And, even today, they are sometimes punishable by involuntary forced electroshock.”

—   Check out “From Burning Man to Bellevue,” a true story of institutionalization and radical mental health, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

the evening air that century was thick
sedative

news from its middle ages had arrived again so now the embassy squeals
an unoiled castle

the cautious instructions from the freshly homeless babies read
afterbirth=packaging

—   From “Owl Contemplating a Frisbee,” a poem by Rich Ives, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“A twee niceness is snark’s mirror image, more pleasant, but as a guiding principle, almost as vacant. Niceness is an affect, a surface level tendency. A lot of the gamblers on Wall Street who wrecked a generation’s economy are really nice bros. Some of the soldiers shelling schools in Gaza are probably teddy bears around their families. The twee boys running our college newspapers might be really polite as they discount women’s opinions. Niceness doesn’t necessarily speak to any deeper commitment to justice. In fact, it can be used to gloss over it.”

—   Travis Mushett looks at the limits of twee/indie culture, only at Blunderbuss Magazine.

“Faith, privacy—river
of belief that one is owed
an internal life, a rich
vista of idiosyncrasies,
like looking at windows
and wondering who’s in there
having sex? I don’t want
to set you up for a racial
encounter, but NDNs
are reluctant to tell
their stories to strangers.
There is no such thing
as ‘Indian,’ but now
there’s no turning back.”

—   An excerpt from Tommy Pico’s long poem “IRL,” up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.
"Neither man screams. The only sound is the sound of a body breaking. These two have been playing this game for centuries."
Kate Brittain only needs 371 words to creep you the hell out. Check out her story “Lament,” only at Blunderbuss Magazine.
*Art by Yvonne Martinez.

"Neither man screams. The only sound is the sound of a body breaking. These two have been playing this game for centuries."

Kate Brittain only needs 371 words to creep you the hell out. Check out her story “Lament,” only at Blunderbuss Magazine.

*
Art by Yvonne Martinez.

“Now it is afternoon dear
god another bird dead head
in a snow pile dull claws
in the air it would have said
if it could talk what the fuck….”

—   Two poems from Morgan Parker, up now at Blunderbuss Magazine.
"Love on The Bachelor, though arrived at through a set of unreal circumstances, is real—just like falling in love on vacation is real, like falling in love over a semester abroad is real—if only for the duration of the show itself.”
Sam Eichner on real love, reality TV, and the hyperreal transgressions of Juan Pablo, now at Blunderbuss Magazine.