"There are odd clashes, mismatches, amounts of culture here.

No one got the memo that punk is dead (it assuredly is) that ska

sucks (it does) and that hippie culture in often misguided and

stupid (Grateful Dead my ass) Just lost eyes listening to music,

scared and ecstatic all at once. The have the advantage over their

parents that they KNOW they'll burn out, give up, grow old; that

you get off the bus before it runs out of gas and that anarchy in

the UK was always just a metaphor and a pipe dream. EVERY-

ONE is washed out, or getting there, and no one cares. It's a

generation of apathetic vintage fashion victims, dancing wildly

because there is nothing left to do but cry. Happiness exists here

in the bottom of beer cans-- but at least we've all rejected the

hipsters, those vapid Urban Outfitter zombies who already gave

up-- embraced it, the fucks. Here is Helm's Deep, here is the last

stand of Custer and the death throes of the Old South, wrapped

up in the rags of a Union Jack and resistance past. We're dieing,

but will NOT equivocate, we will NEVER give up.; a dieing star,

bright and beautiful and sad. The music makers-- they go home

to have a beer and fall asleep and then wake up to begin the

search again. They stare at music. Our generation is lost-- we

have no identity-- we're not brighter or better than those

"unique" scenes that came before us. But Y2K and beyond will

not be forgotten. We have far too many tattoos for that to hap-

pen."

—Mousetree

Cover Art By Eli Kozik

Acid Rain

By Nick Pino

Cities need rain. They thirst like every other living, breathing organ-ism. Without rain they rot to their steel-clad core and reek of the greed and gluttony from the place that birthed them. You would think cement doesn’t need it like the grasslands or the plains, but take away the rain from this place, well shit, you’ll see a whole new kind of hell. They say if you listen hard enough, the city speaks. It never spoke. To speak means that this city would have something to say to rats that infest this place. The rats that steal, cheat, and kill for another dollar. No, I don’t think the city has anything to say to us. Unlike vermin, the worst of us come out during the day. Millions in the swarm take to the streets with their thousands of cars that con-sume and pollute this town from its tattered innards, out. I’d stop them myself if I could, but it’s human nature; consume and dis-card...and let’s be honest, what’s life without Starbucks. It’s easier to work out life’s great mysteries when you’re standing twenty stories above the pavement on the concrete shell of this hell-hole. You can see this place for what it really is. A prison. There isn’t any four walls keeping you from leaving, but when this is the only place you’ve ever known, well, everywhere else just can’t cut it. There’s no jailor in the prison, no one to keep you from escaping. There’s one barrier from here to the other side and that barrier is the one that sits on top of your shoulders. Just make sure it’s not damaged goods. I look at the ground below, remembering what I came up here to do. I hear the storm’s low-pitched rumble before I feel the rain, and everything feels right, even when you know it’s wrong. I needed the rain, especially before a commitment like this. It was all going so well, the plan coming to fruition, but right before I could make my legs give out, well, that’s when the acid hit.

Untitled

By Mark Zimmerman

One could spend

Their whole existence

By a waterfall

Listening to the cascade

Perpetually in motion

Without pause

And life,

Not a second wasted.

One could elapse

A set of breaths

By a rose

Staring for perfection

In stranded sight

Without cause

For life,

Nothing unaccomplished.

One could gather

A passion for memory

With the swell of loss

Regretting relationships

Left untouched

Without worth

And strife,

Something to be overcome.

One could hope

To the point of prevention

In anguish

Believing the fates

Forever with occupation

Against will

And choice,

Nothing to be chosen.

One could despair

At the ignorance of others

Watching in assurance

Their lives spent knowing

With certainty

Against symptoms

And voice,

Ever a muted song.

One could do nothing

Except think

What that would assuredly mean?

To analyze

Instead of live

Yet with the countenance

That there is no ending.

Was not a presence.

Can’t be gained.

And proof?

Nothing to be believed

Picture by Jake Kassnoff

Untitled

By Metonymically Meta-Anonymous in Chicago

and so I guess then when I get hurt i’ll pace around the house like a wounded bear, going from place to place, not knowing what to do

Picture by Jake Kassnoff

The Sacrifice

By Daniel Allen

I stood quivering, blood dripping down the corners of my

mouth, trying to get her screaming out of my head. We all were. The sound of sirens only dimly registered in my head. We looked at each other with a puzzled look, looked down at what was left of the body and without saying a word, parted ways.

I remember walking into the woods behind the building, eventually I started running, the trees flying by in a blur of motion, the static life, the serene facade shattered. It was the first time that I felt alive, I was truly and utterly in the moment; I was running from the cops goddamn it!

The woods kept getting thicker and thicker, I didn't care, I just kept running. It's odd, I never considered myself a runner, but here I was, didn't feel tired, hell! I didn’t feel pain, I felt nothing, not a thing. I was on top of the world until I reached the field and saw the vultures circling.

Her blood dried from the wind, I kept thinking “her blood, oh god, what the fuck ...” "Okay," I told myself "no going back now, I've made my decision ... FUCK!" It was all over my clothes, my mouth, my neck, and oh god, did it feel good. It was like a cold blanket, a serene reassurance of something prehistoric. Deep down, like a fire, or a river, I felt that there was something, awakened? drowned? It was primal, it was wrong and it went against every-thing I stood for, but damn did it feel good.

I wondered whether I had killed the only part of me left, or if I finally broke out of my cocoon. It was all so new back then, I had finally embraced the dark, the screaming, rotting, hellish dark that lived under the bed all those years, and I was still uncertain if this was the path I wanted to take.

Eventually I came across a road, a busy country road with forest on one side and houses on the other. There were kids

playing in a yard down the street, their screams seemed muffled and distant, and before I knew it the red and blue lights were on me. They came out of the cars with their guns drawn, shouting at me.

It must have been a sight for them to see, a deranged man with that primal look in his eye, sticks in his hair, covered in blood and sweat, scratched all over, standing next to the houses that they are sworn to protect.

At the trial, they kept asking me questions, but there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do. Maybe they saw it in my eyes, maybe they recognized me for what I was; an outsider.

The only thing I could think was "maybe I AM broken; maybe the blood shattered my sanity." But then again, I felt fine, not a worry in the world, it was those around me that were wor-ried, they were the broken ones.

So now I am in jail, waiting for my turn at death like a chump. But you know, I don't regret a single thing, since that gruesome act of cannibalism I have lived my life. Sure I was technically free for only a few hours afterward, but I got to be a part of life, I learned what those zen scholars were really talking about. Sure, I got there in a fucked up twisted way, but I got there; the cycle completed. Dead but for my pulse, waiting for the end.

Untitled Song

By Jacob Kerwin

(Who is 11 years old!)

“Today, I was driving to work, and I noticed that over the highway--

on the backdrop of an old factory-- were these great big beautiful

balloons. There had been one yesterday, but suddenly, there were

like... eight or nine. Just big, bright, round, floating spheres. I

thought, "There's more of them! How pretty" and wondered where

they came from. I thought about what businesses were along the

highway, and I realized that these balloons were advertising for a

used car lot. Now how strange is that? Something so beautiful and

gaudy and showy and fun-- festival decorations-- but for something

that is generally overlooked. Used Cars... maybe you SHOULD be

corny every so often. There is something humbling about not being

bad ass all the time. I suppose there is more to this thought that I

haven't worked out yet, but do you understand where I'm going?

Used car lots, and unexpected beauty.”

—Mousetree

Untitled Ghazal

By Metonymically Meta-Anonymous in Chicago

I think of what you have said in this way: My heart and my tongue unwed in this way: Night stokes the glint in his glistening eye; An ember burning instead in this way. She sweetened her voice when she spoke to him-- Animosities had bred in this way. The white oak sprouting its vernal brocade-- Lushness, though green, can be red in this way. A thawing creek sings its origin-song; Nocturnal birds have been bled in this way. Yeast smells and ovens can make a man sick: Even bakers tire of bread in this way. Ahead lies the city, gleaming and bright; A beacon guiding the dead in this way. Manna and honey from heaven to eat-- The hungry have never fed in this way. The poet has spoke in whispers and song-- Young men have never been led in this way. The poet has spoke his heart to the throng; Weary, he settles to bed in this way.

Pruned By Orioles

By Morgan Fallon

On Sunday a strange orange bird landed in the trumpet vine

it began pulling off the wilted flowers and poking its head into healthy ones

it ringed its beak around each flower's base

affectionately nuzzling them with its neck and face

a rather appreciable pruning job given by this bird

hummingbirds soon appeared as though news of this good work had been

heard

I went for a walk and thought I saw someone I know

who also stirs up thoughts of canaries never seen this far North

touch your skin, kiss your skin, love your skin

never committed this last sin

you were scared off by the noise from the coffee grinder

like a cardinal perched by the kitchen window though the offer

couldn't have been kinder

these bright colored birds, strangers to my Northern Latitudes

can they stay here long, will they find their favorite foods?

This is the third time I thought I saw the other wandering canary,

she loves me? she loves me not?

did she answer those questions? am I happy to see her? I don't know, I for-

got

the matter needs more thought

so I walked and walked, and walked

I stopped at a hardware store so I could fix a light in the basement

and start some laundry

there on the shelf was an answer to one quandary

the identity of one of the canaries wandering this far North

Yes, yes, orioles of course

I'll buy this box of powdered nectar made specially just for them and

this plastic diamond with holes and perches to serve as the nectar's

source

within hours of being placed outside the new feeder drew in an oriole

with all deliberate speed, perhaps coercive force

it passed on the feeder to nuzzle more flowers

so far it's only attracted wasps

deads ones were floating in the nectar within a few hours

it's ok to feed birds a jilted bird lover, my Ornitho-friend says

though the store bought nectar's ingredients suggest I may as well as

feed them Pez

About the other canary no one really knows it seems

an oriole approaches the flowers carefully, checking for unseen

dangers before nuzzling them like the stuff of unstoppable dreams

Orioles then leave carefully, stopping at a few ascending bases

before flying away swiftly, fading into orange and yellow traces,

invoking memories of other canaries and having pollen covered faces

Picture by: Eli Kozik