Brett Stout is a 39-year-old artist and writer. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He creates mostly controversial art usually while breathing toxic paint fumes from a small cramped apartment known as “The Nerd Lab” in
“Lakapati, pakanin mo yaring alipin mo; huwag mong gutumin.” “Lakapati, feed thy servant; let him not hunger.” — ancient supplication, once proclaimed before
Our lovely daughter is reading a book on magical jellyfish & one on the history of the human world. She is even more kind than her brother though she’s a sore loser. Her brain’s like a falcon, the way it flashes & swoops, how fast
I claim direct descent from those born from the depths of soil not the ones who fell from their thrones. Fatima Siraj is a Liberal Arts student and a part-time facilitator based in Pakistan. She conducts poetry workshops in schools to encourage young students toward
My mother overshares with me transferring scars through stories that do not leave a mark if my listening brings her healing should I scratch her wounds? Fatima Siraj is a Liberal Arts student and a part-time facilitator based in Pakistan. She conducts poetry workshops in
The lady pitching a tent by our apple fields turned out to be the one who was almost your mother. I sensed somehow that there wasn’t yet a mold for which this particular news should reach you so I gathered a few cotton swabs and
when my mother says I am a universe in the shape of a girl it is to say I inherit her chemical tears a moon-sad girl star-blossoms sprout from my eyes perfumed black holes I swallow dark matter
I am at a loss because I am at a doorway and it is both my door and a child. I am here and I am on my grandmother’s lap twenty years ago, and she is singing a dry creekbed, because of course she never
In the morning I come to you like a baby sparrow—my eyes can’t see straight. Where is our son? What does it mean to be a woman or person or bird or bed or falling chunk of sky? When you go, in the heat of the
Antlers half-buried in the mud like a cabin shut deep in the woods that nobody enters a grizzly hibernating within that dream of the salmon who never returns to the drying river a farmer must look away from the harvest the cities are not meant