The season of graduation is upon us…. Reflect with Jack Anderson’s poem.
Artist ORA77K opens up about her life and releases a new project.
A collection of words and pictures shared with Tunnel in the past couple of months,
Curated by Amelia Anthony, created by individual artists.
Long-ago memories, ones that last from generation to generation. Glimpses of a childhood past. Sorrows of the estranged ancestral motherland, China. Cindy Song finds herself somewhere in between.
Words and photos by Angel Fabre felix’s poem
the anger in one’s soul will soon prove to no longer have meaning the urge for violence will soon take over
and all that will be left is
the blood of the innocent and not so innocent soon the world will be faced with the world’s blood on the world’s hands
nobody’s sins will be forgiven
suppose we are all condemned?
monday until you are comfortable with being alone
you will never know if
you’re choosing someone
out of love or loneliness.
Like Ian Words by A.A. Reinecke It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood the shape of: Minnesota. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. It is noon now. That was breakfast. The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured glass. The windows spoke in tongues or through lust strained in milk. Q: Do you love me? A: I don’t know. Chai was sweet grain melted like the wetness of my mouth and your tongue tasted still like Ian and his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting prohibition. Q: The flask? A: No. My plastic cup membrane shed quartz like history nabbed from a headband. The 1920s. Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything? A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. Photo credit: Brandon Yung
Words by Kyla Jonas Photographs by Brandon Yung Benevolence I am trying to embroider all of my apologies onto the fleshy parts of my fingers. I am hungry for more kisses from angels on my cheeks and more soft lullabies sung to my stale elbows. I wish to feel less like the chair that the morning fog steps off of in an attempt to hang itself over me. I pray for days that won’t always end with me staring at the floor and whispering about the heavenly body of earth to the light behind my dead moss eyes. I have the outline of butterfly wings carved across the bare covering of my ribs. I am wrapping my heart in Irish wool to grow into a sweater with every beat and warm my antarctic essence. I will one day hold fondness and humility in my rough hands and bestow it upon myself. I will be covered in shadows of babies breath flowers whenever I am immersed in sunlight. I will absorb tenderness. Vacant Small Talk My mind is …
Poetry and photos by Somi Jun Are we as outta here as those blue nights, when I looked down and saw my street, lit yellow in a haze. As the night I couldn’t sleep in your bed, woke at 4am and sobbed to the sound of amen. As the half hour I shaved and saw the V of my thighs in the mirror. As Friday night boogie right. As the fall of her toes from the trapeze. As his Christmas gift and I see now I am grown without a witness. As the last rite of Mercerism, that damned two-way street. As outta here as dead road, a one-way train through the suburb. Eye One 15 hours under the weight of glass, my feet curved into the side of a self-proclaimed anarchist. I fell asleep to speech of Burning pigs and bitching chicks and a baking planet’s Wrath, old as fenced animals. His throat warbles Through a plea to the nuclear family’s dog. They sing: Food before bombs. My last night in Los Angeles, …
Poem by A.A. Reinecke People hated Kennedy at Harvard (crimson). Do you know why? Do you know how hard it is to be wrong beside people, like him, whose failures are beautiful? I bought you a pack of mints at LAX to say something hard. Is it cowardice if I preface this? I’m remembering the punch bowl at the Mormon party and how when I binge ate Carvel ice cream cake you left a Himalaya on your plate where synthetic pink melted into white. Do you know I love you? And the color of your politics? Or that I was trying to humble myself to our shitty teacher when I smiled at the story about how her son’s nose was broken at Georgetown? Did you notice that in Spanish class the matador on the wall never was authoritarian about your using the restroom? Or that a pair of almond eyes, before being lost in hotel laundry, intended to will from you a treaty? Know I miss you. That I’m sorry. That I wish sometimes you’d …
you coax my thumb in bone like vestigial habit is a word for the lie your history book forgot to tell you. like hand over thumb is physical meditation: tan oat tan oat tan oat tan oat, a skipped needle asking: do you? do you remember the first night? me a recruited athlete in the sweatshirt and my legs? and the similar shape of our wants? rome is dead. do you remember the funeral? and that brows exist among the ruins? that you taught me to steal? like beauty is the last soup dumpling in the fridge and you took it. like you made your face sucking on the peppermint stick of a pillar and massachusetts had a vacation in the jarbled blood-laurel and elder of your mouth. do you? do you, do you remember the egg nog? spiked so beautiful? or the shape of starving? how you funded my folly? three drinks a day for a raisinnut blister raised in your name? the clover at your temples? when the sky was a marble slab …