The season of graduation is upon us…. Reflect with Jack Anderson’s poem.
Our gift to you: A review of Amir Mitchell-Townes’s “Blacne,” out this Tuesday.
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 …
The thoughts had mulling over a cup of coffee, alone in the morning, or maybe staring out a train window. Poet Claire August shares her own moments, thoughts and words strung together in a seemingly cosmic benevolence. Here are three of her poems. poems by Claire August images and other words by Brandon Yung Listless What is there to do on a Morning so long awaited where there is no- thing in particular that anticipates & dreams move slowly like a heavy novel. I write poems: art of the listless. I open my mouth, breathe yellow plums. In The Future How does anyone find the time these days for optimism. The future is for the profound, the past beautifully barren. …
ABOUT THE ARTIST: A.A. Reinecke is Tunnel’s newest diarist. She is a writer and poet from Westchester, NY. Her work has most recently appeared in the Claremont Review, and Pulchritude Press. She resides in Northern California where she writes every morning at 5 AM, opposite a print of “View of the World from 9th Avenue” and often beside a glass of Thai iced coffee. In adulthood she plans to write books and live in the woods. Photo from Perah Ralin
Tunnel hosted its second open mic event at SPACE Art Center, to hold space for one another’s experiences and explore the “molting” nature of transitions. Somi Speaks: This is the third and most likely the last open mic event I’ve helped organize for high school students. Thank you forever to SPACE for hosting the open mic, providing an outlet for young voices, soliciting free pizza for the event (!!!), funding the printing of the zine, and everything else that you do for the arts community. Thank you forever to every person who stood up and shared their work and let us take a peek into your personal space. It was such a special night for me and I always feel so privileged to bear secondhand witness to your experiences and words. Also, a brief apology for my nervous energy leading up to the event: I’m working on being a more relaxed host. The Zine The Crowd
Above is “Self-Portrait” in charcoal by the lovely Kathleen Gao, who has agreed to let me publish this work here. ________________________________________________________________ Dawn Dawn’s red Eye cracks open and blinks back light. Gulls shriek. I spit grits of sand in the pale morning. Another sunrise, bleak & wriggling like my son in the backseat. I smell feathers. And today the sky seems to watch my every move. But I was wrong, the Eye is grey. It reaches its pall around the city and smothers it. Grime coats the buildings, and they stand like sandcastles before on-coming foam. An old man shivers and flaps his arms and sad rags like wings. I thought I didn’t want to be young, but I was wrong. My heart is an empty red sand pail, rolling around on concrete. _________________________________________________________________ Dusk _________________________________________________________________ I’ve been attempting to try new things with poetry lately. Like trying the technique of having certain words or images repeated in a poem, like “red” or the idea of flying in the first poem, kind of like a …
There’s a time of day, where reason and rational erodes in the tired mind. When the night sky begins to take on that slight hue of blue light. When the miasma of the unconscious surfaces and lets loose hope and desire. The witching hour. These are six images I have taken, all during the night. They are the ramblings and thoughts that I have had, in places or things I see everyday. Thoughts, mental mumblings in a state of solitude — during mitternacht, midnight. when my mother is asleep and the dog is at bay through my window I’ll climb Into the yellow moth light of the street lamp I’ll climb Portraits of people hung on houses Families eating Couples fighting A lone man Blue light dancing across his lone face What pleasure! That I can see into the hearts of the estranged empty faces passing — constantly How I can see, but they can’t I