Painting by Marci Crawford Harnden

Brassy om fucks
With palms to prayer
Position, elevated like a promotion

Deafening silent cries in back seat
The creak of the mind, slipping Read More



I’m of the school where we are meant to feel the chaos of the cosmos, the “collapsing of stars,” and the funereal aspects of life, deep in the fibers of our muscles. And, it is both a terrifying and a redeeming mission. Hear this:

RamJet Poetry


And it’s all so heavy. Burden of mine embedded. It sticks like a low spring evening in Georgia, suffocating, full of old ghosts and drab speech. There’s cheese-wire cutting through my muscles, fire ants in my bones. Worms eating my guts, spiders behind my eyes. Noises so loud it is the earth sundering, no, the collapsing of a star. Heavy. My heart is on fire and my mind blanketed by winter snow. I have been crucified but unlike the saviour, I cannot die. Moving into a half-waking stupor. I engage in the act of living, but it is a poor performance. I am a MUFON case file, unexplained enigmas, Marfa lights. If you want to know what pain is, look my way. I know what pain is for pain is me. So blind from the light that I cannot see. Funny thing about pain, it is an invisible, sly demon…

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Photography by Bruce Gilden

I’m depressed. I’ve felt a surge of rejection over the past couple weeks, and what’s stupid is it all stems from the vitriolic, soul-crushing existence of social media. It’s simply embarrassing that, 1) we as a civilization have devolved to this being the “most efficient” way of communicating, when actually very little is communicated or learned; and 2) I, a pretty much against-the-mainstream, hippyish free spirit have fallen into all this must-maintain-an-online-presence nonsense. It’s hard living a life you know you’re not supposed to be living, that there’s a much better life for you, calling for you, if only… Read More

Babel Jazz

Art by Ross Eccles


From minor to augmented (egos)
you inverted perverted sevenths and ninths stacked too high and tight like crumbling tenements and
trump tower trumpettes blaring cries for deployment, displacement,
their own decadence.
The tesserae of wild flying life
the pursuit of caffeinated virtue in
my roaring twenties and twentieth-century aftermath
An improbable mosaic for the mathematically inclined:
Oils and piss and turpentine thrown onto the tabula rasa
Orchestras and cocaine and sad sex Read More

Lyrical Love: My Madrigal

Photography by Lenny Kaye

Iconic rocker/poet Patti Smith wrote the song ‘My Madrigal’ after losing her husband, Fred “Sonic” Smith, to heart failure. It begins with a sad, simple piano intro, soon accompanied by long arco cello notes and Patti’s heartbreaking voice, “We waltzed beneath motionless skies, all heaven’s glory turned in your eyes.” Read More


Art installation by Angela Glajcar

I black out in Laos w/ the Canadians and awake the next day in some tall grass next to the river w/ Amaya beside me. I can tell she’s upset and my state of mind is so twisted from the night before that I am emotionally numb. She goes right into it and tells me that she was going to leave me in the middle of the night, just get up and walk away and keep going, but Christ told her to stay and she obeyed. At this point in my life I am struggling so much w/ faith and it almost seems to my demented alcohol-soaked brain that she is using Christ to torment me, Read More