ki-ni-kə-ˈnik zine vol. IV now available

It can be safely viewed here. The formatting is preserved best by a download of the pdf rather than online viewing.

There has been a long delay since the release of the physical paper format of this volume (in October, 2015) and its electronic release today in May, 2017. I’ve been abroad and away from my trusty scanner, but now I’m back at it. This volume on the topic “figuratively speaking” features the poetic, fiction, and non-fiction works of Johanna Bronk, Aurora Feeney-Kleinfeldt, Susan Letcher, Alexander Marcus, Cody Ross Rex, Alyssa Stearns, and Rachel Colwell with highlights of pre-published drawings, prose, and paintings by Edward Gorey, Norton Juster & David Small, and Pieter Breghel. These contributors explored a wide range of topics, including metaphors, proverbs, word play, mad libbing, and other intriguing aspects of language and the linguistic arts. As always, it was a delight to work with these wonderful submissions and brilliant contributors.

Kinnikinnick Cover 4 Cropped

I have printing several copies of Kinnikinnick vol. IV in Berkeley so if you’re around and want a paper copy  just ask or drop me a comment here. If you are interested in printing and distributing copies in your own (physical) area, please let me know and I will send you a link so that you can download the print-able version. Unless they’ve been (un)lawfully seized, you can find copies of all of the Kinnikinnick zines in the University of California Berkeley Doe Library at the call number: PS3505 Co118 R118 MAIN

Please, these aren’t and will never be for sale. If reproduced, all authors must be cited.

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the body parts a pile of pieces



the body parts a pile of pieces
amount a mountain ever distant
cleaving from itself behind,
the crunch of egg against the wall,
ear regular splinters along the spine,
the like-same crude-hewed absence

tied together to the foot of the tomb,
the dead healer,
I tried to name the places between the heart and the knee
but lost myself in the density of it,
the city was vague and rag-tagged red
bent to your bones into the night

shaking out the death threats,
keeping my finger on it,
breadcrumbs for the cats.

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Thanks to S.J. Wang (click here for his twitter) for the brilliant art-object-from-occlupanid and to Mari for sharing it with me. If anyone can translate the title, I’m so curious!

Screen shot 2016-03-16 at 9.02.47 PM.png

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finishing each others’ sentences: new short-shorts

Here are the latest short-shorts from Hannah and me. You can find the entire archive (dating back to 2010) on the “playing at opposites page”

It made her feel better to know that looking wasn’t everything hannah, January 1, 2016

It made her feel better to know that looking wasn’t everything. Now there were other things that drew her attention: the rough brush of the wool blanket, the smooth cool porcelain of the toilet, the suck and pull of air through the crack of the door every six hours at the changing of the guard. At some point, after the first hours of disorientation, she began to mark each gasp with gauge on the side of the bed frame: 3, 5, 20 cycles. 120 hours. She had been locked in this lightless room for more than five days.

At first it was horror: the fumbling, stumbling reach for the walls, the vertiginous sense of an abyss. She crawled from one side of the room to the other, paced out the room by knee and palm. There was a bed in one corner, a sink and toilet in the other, but it took some time to understand this; for what may have been weeks, or perhaps hours, she knew only that there would be times when she would come up against a rise or a fall or a hard ending. But then, of course, she adapted. Now she found safety in the four walls, certainty in the narrow confines of the room, and relief in the absence of vision and life. She knew she would be afraid when the light came.

She knew she would be afraid when the light came rachel, March 9, 2016

She knew she would be afraid when the light came because she never knew how long she could stay with them there. Every time this reminded her of when she counted to forever because she was sure it would end before she could count to the end of everything. In the brightness she built elaborate illusions of time passing. Counting was elevator music and the pull-and-thrust of riding a horse fast.

Remember there’s space, the door opening to infinity. Keep your eyes on the vanishing points of the horizon of the present. That she thought she could hold (on) to, even in the rising wash of light that quietly and unceremoniously evacuated her body of the most mundane signals of its being.

It was no miracle building the arc. More honorable was the maniac who caste two enormous iron anchors to hold down the town. She took comfort in their size. She wondered how she would ever know how big she really was.