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I managed to watch the matinee and the evening show. They were absolutely amazing. Fast and furious songs, Martin’s stage presence, great communication with the crowd and energy was thoroughly entertaining. He also looked great in what little clothing he was wearing. Played great songs like - I Love Hardcore Boys,What’s Up with the Kids?, Como Vos, They Tell Me and many many great songs.

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Limp Wrist is a hardcore punk band featuring members of Los Crudos, Hail Mary, and Kill the Man Who Questions.   Referring to their style of hardcore punk music, the band declared in Frontiers Newsmagazine, “We put the ‘core’ back in homocore”. Their first recording was the self-released demo Don’t Knock It Till You Try It. This was followed by a single called “What’s Up With The Kids” and then the self-titled LP Limp Wrist. However, since band members lived in different states maintaining the group became difficult. After an interlude they resumed touring in 2004 and released a new LP, Complete Discography the same year. The song “Ode” from this recording pays tribute to pioneering gay hardcore musicians Gary Floyd of The Dicks, Randy “Biscuit” Turner of Big Boys and Joshua Plague of Mukilteo Fairies and Behead The Prophet, No Lord Shall Live, providing a historical context for Limp Wrist.   The band’s best known song is “I Love Hardcore Boys, I Love Boys Hardcore”, which received much attention from fans and press alike. Lead singer Martin Sorrondeguy appears in “Queercore: A Punk-u-mentary” by Scott Treleaven and addresses the issue implicit in these song titles, what some might view as the apparent struggles of being both queer and being involved in the punk scene. -via last.fn   Limp Wrist on Facebook Limp Wrist on Bad Skulls

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April 27, 2020

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LIMP WRIST live at Brooklyn Bazaar, Jun

LIMP WRIST live at Brooklyn Bazaar, Jun. 7th, 2019 (FULL SET)

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LIMP WRIST live at Brooklyn Bazaar, Jun

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Support Max Volume Silence Live on Patreon! Video by Frank Huang.

LIMP WRIST live at Le Poisson Lounge, Jun

LIMP WRIST live at Le Poisson Lounge, Jun. 16th, 2013 (FULL SET)

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LIMP WRIST live at Union Pool, Jun. 15th, 2013 (FULL SET)

WKNC 88.1

Queer Artist Spotlight: Limp Wrist

  • Post author By J
  • Post date June 6, 2023

limp wrist tour

As we usher in this year’s Pride Month, I think about how frightening it has become to exist as a queer person in the United States.

Amid a sudden resurgence of anti-LGBT rhetoric, expressed both through discourse and legislation, I feel far removed from the corporatized and polished version of Pride that has been offered to us in recent years.

Thus, I have decided to spend this month highlighting aspects of queer history the mainstream often finds unpalatable. I aim to cast a spotlight upon subversive queer artists and the often-obscured dynamics of queer music history.

limp wrist tour

The best place to start is with a band whose audacious queerness empowered its fans to live their lives unapologetically and with radical self-love in the face of an often-stifling heteronormative society.

In staunch opposition to the concept of “queer marketability,” this group expressed the crux of the queer experience as something deeply emotional, often sexual and ultimately transcendental.

Limp Wrist, Raised Fist

Limp Wrist emerged in 1998 from a Philadelphia basement.

Their first performance a year later at Stalag 13, a now-defunct venue in West Philly known for its status as a punk powerhouse, carried them into the subcultural consciousness.

limp wrist tour

Following the dissolution of Chicago-based band Los Crudos , singer Martin Sorrondeguy and guitarist Mark Telfian decided to form Limp Wrist as a means of addressing dynamics affecting the queer community.

The band’s first release was “ Don’t Knock It Till You Try It ,” a self-released demo featuring savage drums and guitar and barely-comprehensible lyrics about men-loving-men.

Following this release, the band put out the single “ What’s Up With The Kids ” before releasing their first LP, “ Limp Wrist .”

Limp Wrist’s songs are hard, fast and irreverent.

Beyond that, they’re unabashedly queer.

Their most well-known song, “ I Love Hardcore Boys, I Love Boys Hardcore ,” validated the presence of queerness within the hardcore punk scene, with the song’s lyrics illustrating shameless themes of sexual attraction.

I love hardcore boys, it’s too good to be true One on one or the whole damn crew It’s all exciting for us so lets give it a whirl I love hardcore boys cuz they make my toes curl Limp Wrist, “I Love Hardcore Boys, I Love Boys Hardcore”

An all-gay band, Limp Wrist stands as a pioneer of the punk queercore movement.

Also known as “homocore,” queercore emerged as an offshoot of the punk subculture in the 1980s in response to societal hostility towards the LGBT community.

Cover of the American magazine Homocore, edited by Tom Jennings and Dick Nigilson. Image depicts Jennings and Nigilson in an embrace. Demonstrates the DIY nature of the Queercore movement through production of magazines.

Bands associated with the subculture produced songs exploring sexuality, gender identity and the intersection of queer identities with systemic oppression.

The queercore movement primarily expressed itself through the DIY convictions of the punk movement, with members producing zines, films and other forms of art.

Limp Wrist’s contribution to the queercore subculture lay in its musical content.

With lyrics decrying homophobia and the straight hegemony as well as tounge-in-cheek quips about corporatized homosexuality, Limp Wrist created a space for unrestrained male queerness.

Don’t be the world’s punching bag A defenseless queer open for attack Thick Skin –They can’t get through Layer upon layer they can’t get through Limp Wrist, “Thick Skin”
Submissive tired f—ing scene Boring predictable queens Absorb and swallow what’s being pushed Individuality is crushed Limp Wrist, “Fake Fags”

During live shows, band members implored queer men to “stop hating their bodies” and “stop imitating Daddy.”

At one performance, frontman Martin Sorrondeguy told the audience “there’s not nearly enough guys in here with their shirts off right now,” a statement reflecting the band’s staunch philosophy of sexual expression and self-love.

Limp Wrist Today

A self-proclaimed project band, Limp Wrist’s inactivity is largely due to the fact that none of its members have ever lived in the same city as one another.

In a way, this makes it all the more special when they finally come together.

limp wrist tour

The band’s most recent activity includes a 2018 show at The Regent in Los Angeles and a 45-minute radio show with NTS Remote Utopias in May of 2020.

While the band still remains inactive on all platforms, hope prevails that current political tensions may compell them to rekindle Limp Wrist’s unique spark.

Recommended Songs

  • Does Your Daddy Know?
  • I Love Hardcore Boys, I Love Boys Hardcore
  • Tags college radio , Hardcore Punk , limp wrist , queercore , WKNC , WKNC 88.1

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J is a DJ at WKNC and a staunch enjoyer of dark and moody music.

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“A Straight Line is No Guarantee” Paisley Fields – Limp Wrist

Review: paisley fields – limp wrist.

Country and musical theater are mirror images of each other – both are genres that use fiction and performance as a means to access truth, with a level of built-in artifice. Everything is reduced to a prop in a story, exaggerated so it can be legible from the back of a theater.

In country music, men are men because they drive pickup trucks and shoot guns; women are women because they stand by their men and raise their babies. These tropes are so intense that they take on a life of their own. In other words, country is camp. Which means country is, inherently, gay as hell.

Paisley Fields’ third album, Limp Wrist , announces its gay-as-hell intentions from the title alone; it’s fun to encounter a country record that’s this openly committed to queerness. Fields has the bona fides to back up his aesthetic gambits, too. He grew up in rural Iowa, surrounded by country music and the simple, heterosexual lifestyle that mainstream country lionizes; later in life, he toured with the country trailblazer Patrick Haggerty (aka Lavender Country) and collaborated with the queer bluegrass artist Sam Gleaves. 

But Fields’ previous work connected with his past mostly on a surface level – his last record, Electric Park Ballroom, is named after a dance hall he visited in his childhood but largely focuses on present-tense storytelling. Limp Wrist , on the other hand, directly engages with his youth and coming-of-age as a rural queer person in the 90s.

Fittingly, the album’s sound is reminiscent of the warm, pop-friendly naturalism of the era, like the Chicks or Sara Evans or Trisha Yearwood; its jauntier numbers are driven by honky-tonk pianos and homey fiddles, while melancholic slide guitars and rich harmonies accentuate its slower moments. It’s reminiscent of the precise moment in the late 90s and early 2000s when pop-rock, traditional country, and bluegrass blended together, before the genre turned back towards the brawnier sonics of southern arena rock. The overall textural effect is soft and welcoming, with a sprinkle of synth to keep things from feeling too staid.

limp wrist tour

The record opens with several of its strongest songs sequenced back-to-back. “Black Hawk County Line” uses tractor-beam synth pads and a rolling, saloon-bar piano to recount Fields’ outing at the hands of a high school classmate, creating an atmosphere of heightened suspicion even as Fields zooms out and provides the album’s thesis statement on the bridge: “ Distance and time taught me I wasn’t broken/But part of me is still behind the Black Hawk County line .” “Dial Up Lover” features one of Fields’ best vocal performances, crossing from nostalgic tenderness to enthusiastic horniness and back, while the swooning “Junkyard Angel” counters with sweet, guileless romanticism.

This song sequence peaks with “Iowa,” Limp Wrist’ s clear standout. Its lush strings and dewy pedal steel guitar evoke the golden meadows and warm summer air that permeate Fields’ lyrics, but his mournful vocals are heavy with adult emotion as he narrates a slow-motion ostracism from his hometown. His writing here impressively threads the needle; it’s so theatrically declarative that you can imagine a spotlight hitting him as he sings the first line, but he incorporates vignettes and images with dexterity and subtlety. He contrasts the mainstream narrative of rural life – one of freedom, open spaces, and community – with his own experience as a queer person, in which the natural beauty that surrounds him is also isolating and dangerous. 

The song hinges on a reference to the 1998 murder of Matthew Shepard, an event that serves as a reminder that Fields’ hometown has no place for him; in a press release, Fields recalls that there was an active debate over whether or not Shepard “deserved it.” This blasé reaction ripples uneasily through the song, emphasizing the risk that Fields faced within his own community from men who would think of themselves as tough, gallant, and self-reliant. It offers a counter-narrative to the mainstream country ideal of a man, a pickup truck, and a wide-open field: real outlaws are those who can’t fit into this marketed image of cowboy Americana. 

Limp Wrist is at its strongest in moments like these, when Fields uses his experiences as a way into an alternate version of country performance. As it is in real life, this kind of outlaw living isn’t something that Fields can opt into or out of at will, but rather something that circumstance has forced him into; it’s not a pose that he has to enforce at every moment by reaching for a set of props. “Iowa” reminds us that real transgression is often punished, not celebrated. 

But that doesn’t mean that Fields makes no room for joy on Limp Wrist ; after all, isn’t country all about how living against the grain is fun? The delightful “Ain’t Built For Speed” subverts the way that country songs extol the virtues of a slower life. Fields’s lyrics make that trope into a metaphor, finding joy in going off the beaten path of straight life. When he sings “ A straight line is no guarantee ,” the double entendre is almost too obvious, but the audible smirk in his voice makes it land anyway. In the background, a bouncy fiddle line echoes the Chicks’ 2002 banger “Long Time Gone,” tying Fields’ joyful subversion to a broader critique of mainstream country.

The album’s lead single, “Jesus Loving American Guy,” digs further into these ideas. “ I can drink a beer, shoot a deer/and pick a fight or two, ” Fields sings, “ I’m not like those fake outlaws they’re selling you. ” The song’s fiddle leaps and twirls daintily, playing languid call-and-response with a sizzling electric guitar; the instruments feel casual and luxurious, never hurried or confused. They’re two halves of the same coin, blending and blurring into each other and emphasizing the lyrics’ sense of fluidity: masculinity itself isn’t a defining feature of Fields’ landscape, but just one option out of many. It’s a costume; it’s drag; it’s camp. Refreshingly, it’s fun .

limp wrist tour

“I can drink a beer, shoot a deer and pick a fight or two , I’m not like those fake outlaws they’re selling you. ”

This considered approach has its downsides, though. Limp Wrist thrives in subtleties and ambiguities, stacking in subversive ideas beneath its pleasantly traditional sonic shell; when Fields aims for bigger and campier pleasures around the middle of the tracklist, the record falters a bit. 

“Flex” detours into a disco-esque thump, a sound that Fields has explored before . Here, he tries to exploit the well-worn link between 80s workout videos and sexuality. Gang vocals wail “ Leopard-print, neon fantasy ” on the chorus, accompanied by the percussive backdrop of a sampled whip-crack and a slightly lagging drumbeat. On the song’s outro, Fields intones, “ Push it, pump it/ Feel that burn .” The whole thing feels like a goofy lark, but it’s a little too non-specific to land – the sound and writing have an almost innocent, community-theater quality, pushing hard against any eroticism and making the whole song fizzle out.

The following song, “Giddy Up Saturday Night,” feels a little more successful. Its all-out hootenanny vibe is a lot of fun and a better tonal fit with the rest of the album, but in context it still feels like a bit of a swerve, a little too self-consciously aestheticized to fit in. Its lyrics are reminiscent of the yeehaw memes that saturated the internet around the time Kacey Musgraves’ Golden Hour reminded everyone that country can be, like, good – the camp factor is so purposefully exaggerated that it feels a little redundant. 

It’s not necessarily that the album has to be serious all the time, but that the best songs are able to include jokes and camp to add texture into a larger framework, rather than pursuing silliness for the sake of it. Country’s aesthetics are already so campy and over-the-top because the genre exalts a kind of American fantasia that never really existed at all, and its performers have to lean into theater in order to sell the fantasy. Limp Wrist is at its most interesting when it loves the aesthetic but interrogates the pain beneath it.

“Plastic Rosary,” a tender, smoldering ballad towards the end of the record, illustrates Limp Wrist at its best. Its harmonized chorus invokes a church choir, while its central organ riff is warm and dusty; you can practically see the sunbeams streaming through stained glass. The lyrics recount Fields’ religious upbringing in the Catholic church, recalling childhood prayer surrounded by billowing clouds of frankincense. But the second verse moves forward in time, recasting the song’s warmth – it’s not a rose-tinted memory piece, but an angry look into the past from the safety of the present. “ Received contradictions: a sinner, a saint/peel back the layers of who I am and who I ain’t, ” Fields sings. Church bells creep into the mix before he concludes, “ I have my own doxology, ” accompanied by a restatement of the organ riff on an electric guitar; it’s an act of reclamation. The song, like Limp Wrist as a whole, uses the aesthetics of country to re-frame queerness: not as an aberration in the genre’s stiff norms, but as an essential, divine part of American life.

Follow Paisley Fields on Twitter and check out his website for upcoming tour dates . You can support Limp Wrist over on bandcamp . Header 📷: Sammy Hearn

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Limp Wrist Tour Dates in 2024

You’ll be excited to know that Limp Wrist is on tour in 2024. If you’ve waited a long time to see Limp Wrist live, the wait is over. Check Limp Wrist tour dates to find all tour stops on the upcoming tour & get tickets to see Limp Wrist live on tour at a show near you.

Limp Wrist has been topping the charts with their exciting and entertaining shows that will sure to thrill all Limp Wrist fans. Be sure to be first in line for tickets for Limp Wrist tickets for all tour dates so you don’t miss out. Make sure to take a look at other  concerts ,  sports , and  theater  tickets as well as there are many top events to watch this year!

Limp Wrist Tour Schedule

Are you looking for the Limp Wrist tour schedule? Look no further. Simply take a look above to find the Limp Wrist tour schedule as it’s quite possible that Limp Wrist will be stopping in your city while on their next tour.

Which City Can I See The Limp Wrist Tour?

You may be able to see the Limp Wrist tour to shows in Greensboro, Fresno, Ontario, Albany, Concord, Bethel, Memphis, Atlanta, Bangor, or Holmdel by buying tickets now.

How Much Are Limp Wrist Tour Tickets?

Limp Wrist tour tickets range in price depending on the event. Such as shows in Tampa, Dallas, Orlando, Tulsa, Detroit, Philadelphia, Buffalo, Denver, Wheatland, or Raleigh may be different in price compared to other tour shows in other cities.

Can I Buy Limp Wrist Tour Tickets?

Yes, you can buy Limp Wrist tour tickets to shows in Lincoln, Columbus, Birmingham, Jacksonville, Albuquerque, Cincinnati, Sacramento, Louisville, Charlotte, or Brooklyn online with the click of a button.

Can You Find Limp Wrist Tour Tickets Near Me?

Yes, you can find Limp Wrist tour tickets to events in Chicago, Seattle, Inglewood, Nashville, Scranton, Camden, Houston, Cleveland, Ridgefield, or Wichita via premiumseating.com.

How Can Someone Buy Cheap Limp Wrist Tour Tickets Online?

You can buy cheap Limp Wrist tour tickets online for the following cities Baltimore, Boston, Minneapolis, Pittsburgh, Rosemont, Phoenix, Tennessee, Indianapolis, Hershey, or Tacoma from premiumseating.com.

How Can I Get Tickets To The Limp Wrist Tour?

Limp Wrist may be touring in Columbia, Oakland, Hartford, Saratoga, Rogers, Anaheim, Austin, Newark, Miami, or Portland and you can buy tickets online from us.

How To Buy Limp Wrist Tour Tickets Online?

You can buy Limp Wrist tour tickets online to events in Irvine, Spokane, Milwaukee, Chula Vista, Darien Lake, Ft Lauderdale, Grand Prairie, Grand Rapids, Green Bay, or Kansas City with the click of a button.

Which Tour Stops Will Limp Wrist Be Performing At And Can I Buy Tickets?

Limp Wrist may be stopping at Las Vegas, Los Angeles, New Orleans, New York, Oklahoma City, Salt Lake City, San Antonio, San Bernardino, San Diego, or San Francisco on their next tour. Be sure to buy tickets right away.

What’s The Best Place To Get Limp Wrist Tour Tickets From?

The best place to get Limp Wrist tour tickets for the San Jose, St Louis, Virginia Beach, Washington DC, West Palm Beach, Sioux Falls, Grand Prairie, Grand Rapids, Atlantic City shows is from premiumseating.com

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Tags limpwrist

View all all photos tagged limpwrist.

this (and other photos I took today) remind me of becca

I'm really feeling uninspired and unsatisified with what I create, lately.

Feel free to save and expose everywhere my photos ❤️

Please leave vulgar degrading comments under my pictures. The more humiliating and perverted they are - the more my sissy citty tingles.

really different from what I usually do; experimental

I'm wearing black lipstick

scroll down for another photo from that day

...don't let this happen to you.

Limp Wrist Japan Tour 2008 @ Shin Sakae, Sonset Strip Nagoya 2008.07.19

Stupid Babies Go Mad

www.sonset-strip.com

Live @ SO36, Berlin. 3/09/2019

On tour with Limp Wrist - summer of 2006. Probably one of the best shows of the tour. Warehouse in Rhode Island, I'm standing on the bottom of a skate ramp. Al Quint is somewhere right behind me. Awesome night!!!

Best Viewed: Large

On Tour - July 2006. Chicago, IL

Disgraced outed loser

Clown Faggot

VS 120 faggot

Two lads passed outside Bonbon- it was about 1:30am.

Busty fagggot

Limp Wrist at the Grosvenor

www.myspace.com/limpwrist

Martin, Christine & Robert. Limp Wrist in DC - Summer 2006. One of these Punks has got a bun in the oven - and I don't mean vegan biscuits & gravy!

...stop by, let's listen to the Fat Boys and Limp Wrist!

limpwrist in DC - 2006

me... as an old-granny tranny fag.

lake charles louisiana

RIP Bruce Roehrs

Bruce (in the center) passed away unexpectedly in his own bed last weekend, at the age of 59. No one really knows how it happened yet, but the Bay Area punk community is definitely in mourning over the passing of this truly sweet and intense man.

Bruce always ended his Maximum Rock N Roll columns with 'See you fucks at the bar', so it's especially appropriate that this photo was taken at a bar during Ken Sanderson's birthday show in the fall of 2008.

You can read more comments about Bruce here:

maximumrocknroll.com/2010/03/17/bruce-roehrs-1950-2010/co...

One of my favorite comments about Bruce on the MRR site:

(Written by) Hal (10:28:56) :

I’m totally floored by his passing. Bruce was so gregarious, enthusiastic, genuine, honest, passionate and thoughtful. He had such a presence about him. The MRR house is gonna miss that old man. He made most of the young scenesters seem like frigid, old fuddy duddys. We should all try to be more like Bruce. I know Bruce will continue to be an inspiration to me.

Punks & Skins & Beers!

Will Kinser, Bruce Roehrs, Scott Moore (with Vinnie La Russa in the back)

Annie's Social Club

San Francisco, California

August 2008

a Polaroid of a slide made from a digital print.

self-portrait...

me acting like a fag.

man... I love fags!

My cousins Tommy and Charles, then ME! limp wrist!

I shot this as we were all getting herded out of the auto repair warehouse at about 3:15 am (see following photo for the details). Stefan & Mr. Mike Mc Kee - please note Mr. Mc Kee's UNBEER-able behavior on the right. Shocking!!!

Chaos In Tejas

Austin, Texas

Deathside Weekend was a true celebration of friendship. Sure do miss seeing these fine folks at Chaos every year.

It's Friday night and I haven't had time to post anything in a long time, so I think it's the perfect time for this fun little bit of drunk drinking to go up. This shot is from Ken Sanderson's 40th birthday party at Annie's Social Club last year. Pictured are the inimitable Bruce Roehrs and Scott Moore. Both happily schwasted! Scott clearly thinks his Invasion t'shirt needed a swig of Budweiser as well...

San Francisco, CA

photo: Ernest Tai

Laying on the floor from back pain.

MRR house, SF, CA.

November 16, 2013 in Toronto

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LW #4: 10/6/21

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Alexis Rhone Fancher

Alison Pelegrin

Allison Joseph

Brendan Walsh

Denise duhamel, donna vorreyer, douglas k currier, george franklin, james davis, jen karetnick, jennifer wheelock, jessica melilli-hand, julie e. bloemeke, karen paul holmes, kate falvey, kelly mcquain, kerry trautman, kj cerankowski, m.m. de voe.

Mark Frazier

Matthew Hittinger

Maureen seaton, raina k. puels, rebekah wolman, roberto christiano, rupert fike, shelly rodrigue.

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Pronouns: He/His

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            Barely getting by, it's all taking and no giving

            They just use your mind and you never get the credit

            It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it

dolly parton wrote “9 to 5” on the set of the film

9 to 5; she used her long acrylic fingernails

to tap out a beat and the song became canon

            for weddings and working class happy hours,

            for drunk uncles and overserved aunts

            to unloosen their ties and shout into the ceiling.

two years i sat nine2five in an office.

i had a desk and two monitors. people

called me on my office phone. i had

a four-digit extension. winter mornings

i wore a peacoat over a blue button down.

i entered equations in spreadsheets,

brought piles of checks and cash to the bursar.

at nine, i stared into an inbox void

so cavernous and sinister i swore

it perched deep in my unconscious,

the dark place no one knows about.

at noon, i’d refuse to eat, but coffee

counts as food if you disregard calories

and chewing, which are both symptoms

of laziness. at two, i’d sit with my friend

and search the salaries of our higher-ups.

public information. every time, shocking.

where did they put all that money?

too much for a wallet, really. maybe

a wheelbarrow? maybe they converted it to gold coins,

filled their basements like Scrooge McDuck.

            i released back into the night, the sanddirtsnow

            parking lot, too sullen and screendead to holler

            towards the sky which just then opened up to hear me.

Brendan Walsh (he/his) has lived and taught in South Korea, Laos, and South Florida. His work appears in Rattle , Glass Poetry , Indianapolis Review , American Literary Review , and other journals. He is the winner of America Magazine's 2020 Foley Poetry Prize, and the author of five books, including Go (Aldrich Press), Buddha vs. Bonobo (Sutra Press), and fort lauderdale ( Grey Book Press).

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Brent Calderwood

Evening Commute

All over town people are meeting cute

The tangled leashes     the spilled coffee    

They are stranded on islands waiting 

for the light     they are reaching for the same 

waxy apple and queuing at the movies

Tippi and Rod in the bird shop

Harold and Maude among the tombstones

Or you and me at the same concert Dolly singing “Those Were the Days”

back when I lived in your city

They are returning from work     they are sharing 

a handrail     their thumbs almost touch 

they are tall like you     the doors slide open

and they are collected by their people 

The kiss     the quick linking of fingers 

the stack of mail     the bunch of violets

they are going home to their lives

Brent Calderwood (he/him) is the author of The God of Longing (Sibling Rivalry Press), an American Library Association LGBT poetry selection for 2014. His essays on film, music, and culture have appeared in Rolling Stone, Out, the Chicago Sun-Times, and elsewhere. His poems have appeared in journals and anthologies including The Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide and Why to These Rocks: 50 Years of Poem from the Community of Writers.

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Pronouns: She/Her

THREE VILLANELLES ON MY SIXTIETH BIRTHDAY

How lucky am I to have lived this long,     

to have made it all the way to sixty.           

This villanelle isn’t quite my swan song    

though I can only do so much to prolong  

my ability to tap my Mac keys.                    

How lucky am I to have lived this long—       

eating Pink Lady apples, playing ping pong

and Scrabble, reading Nikki Giovani.

This villanelle isn’t quite my swan song.

I’ve read Sylvia Plath, Ocean Vuong,  

Frank O’Hara, and Agatha Christie.

How lucky am I to have lived this long—

When I was eight I watched Neil Armstrong

walk on the moon.  I thought he looked tipsy!

This villanelle isn’t quite my swan song,     

or is it? I’ve been right and I’ve been wrong

before. Future predictions transfixed me.

I hope this villanelle isn’t my swan song.

About Birthdays

If I am sixty then Boy George is too.

He’s casting for an upcoming biopic—

No trailer yet, no big hullabaloo.

About birthdays, he says, As long as you

stay present, life stays kaleidoscopic.

I have no movie, only poems to debut.

Friends ask if I’ll fly to the tropics,

leave a trail, make a big hullabaloo.

But I stay home to shimmy and boogaloo,

rage at those Proud Boys, their violent upticks.

Like me, George feels freedom bidding adieu

to youth. Huge problems seem microscopic

in hindsight, no big hullabaloo.

Once I wanted fame. Now I want to pass through

days of good karma, avoid the chaotic.

No Sweet Sixty party, no hullabaloo.

Sweet Sixty

Sweet Sixty and of course I’ve been kissed

by humans and pets, the breeze and the sun.

Keep It Simple, Stupid when you reminisce, 

I tell myself. Not everything was bliss,

nor was everything a grief-megaton.

Sweet sixty and of course I’ve been kissed

then left. Kissed by disaster. Kissed then dismissed.

The illness, the divorce, the hit-and-run.

Keep It Simple, Stupid when you reminisce—

never, when looking back, look in the abyss.

(Shrinks say guilt is a useless emotion.)

by toddlers with sticky lips. A bee’s hiss—

then I was in the ER where my life had begun.

Keep It Simple, Stupid when you reminisce

about childhood, first loves, that awful Christ-

mas. Tragedy didn’t outweigh the fun.

Sweet sixty and of course I’ve been kissed.

I can be stupid when I reminisce.

Denise Duhamel ’s most recent book of poetry is  Second Story  (Pittsburgh, 2021). Her other titles include  Scald ; Blowout ;  Ka-Ching! ;  Two and Two ;  Queen for a Day: Selected and New Poems ; The Star-Spangled Banner; and Kinky .She and Maureen Seaton have co-authored, most recently,  CAPRICE (Collaborations: Collected, Uncollected, and New). She and Julie Marie Wade co-authored The Unrhymables: Collaborations in Prose . She is a Distinguished University Professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami.

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The Sky is a Promise

An airplane arcs a white contrail across the blue,

a linea alba darkening on the belly of the sky,

sign of a world about to be born. That’s not true–

it’s just a machine, venting its exhaust, the dew

of its hot air hitting the atmosphere. I cannot fly

like an airplane’s arching white tail, but blue

is the color that paints my isolation, the view

from every window, the calmest color, a sigh,

a sign from the world. Born of something true,

I make up stories, search the clouds for clues

for how to travel through this trial, my mind

on its own plane –white boats, cotton sails, blue

water. Now a needle pierces my arm, leaves a bruise,

some soreness, the ache a reemergence of the divine,

a sign. A world about to be reborn. That’s not true–

it has all been here, just knocked askew,

spinning wild on its axis. I believe we will be fine,

airplanes arcing white contrails across the blue,

signs of the burdens we have borne, of what is true.

Donna Vorreyer (she/her) is the author of To Everything There Is (2020), Every Love Story is an Apocalypse Story (2016) and A House of Many Windows (2013), all from Sundress Publications. Her work has appeared in Baltimore Review , Tinderbox Poetry , Poet Lore , Sugar House Review , Waxwing , and other journals, and she serves as an associate editor for Rhino Poetry . Recently retired from 36 years in public education, she looks forward to new adventures.

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Turn the page

              

We come to think of this as age,

this measured movement into night. 

Go check the mirror, turn the page.

We check out faces at this stage

for signs of wearing, signs of blight,

we come to think of this as age.

We move our muscles, try to gauge

the looseness there of what was tight.

The worst of us try to assuage

the damage and avoid harsh light.

We come to think of this as age.

The best of us try to engage

the mind to hold the memories right.

But this is only time’s outrage,

cover-to-cover, a book so slight,

we come to think of this as age,

so check the mirror, turn the page.

Douglas K Currier (he/his) has published work in a number of anthologies:  Onion River: Six Vermont Poets , Getting Old , and Welcome to the Neighborhood and journals:  The Café Review , Main Street Rag , The Comstock Review and many others, both in the United States and in South America.  He lives with his wife in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

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When Water Was Enough

I used to wake up early with the light,

Swing feet to floor, ignore my tightening spine,

Throw water on my face to slough off night.

I’d check the mirror surprised back then by white

Hair and wrinkles unmistakably mine.

I used to wake up early with the light.

Uncomfortable asleep, I’d roll left, right,

Barely aware of shadows and design,

But water on my face would slough off night.

Lying in bed, now conscious, just not quite

Awake, tongue swollen, still tasting last night’s wine—

The alarm, ringing loud, persists despite

Blunt hand and brain’s best effort to decline,

Like water on my face to slough off night.

Face it, I’m old.  Sleep rheums and blurs my sight.

The stiffness in my back’s just one more sign.

I used to wake up early with the light

When water was enough to slough off night.

George Franklin (he/his) is the author of four books of poetry, Noise of the World (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), Traveling for No Good Reason (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (Katakana Editores), and Travels of the Angel of Sorrow (Blue Cedar Press).  Magazine publications include: Into the Void , Pedestal Magazine , The Threepenny Review , Salamander , and Cagibi . He is the co-translator, along with the author, of Ximena Gómez's Último día/Last Day (Katakana Editores).

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An Accident

The day he slammed the tailgate on my finger,

we’d just unloaded the last of the firewood.

It was an accident. I wasn’t in danger.

He said he was sorry, twice. “A real humdinger,”

my father called his handiwork, my hand

the day he slammed the tailgate on my finger.

I was thirteen, a back-tier church-choir singer.

I’d prayed for a straightening all that I could.

It was an accident. I wasn’t in danger

as long as I sang my part. I felt no anger

beyond the usual, mortifying need

He shuffled cards. I split the deck. A king or

queen, a flush or straight, I understood

it was an accident. I wasn’t in danger.

The nail turned plum, then black, a harbinger

of night, a little sunset in my blood

It was no accident. I was a danger.

Senior Quotes

“Stay in drugs. Say no to school.”

“Why fall in love when you can fall asleep?”

“Veni vidi vici.” – Ja Rule

“Money can’t buy happiness. It can buy Taco Bell.”

“Some days are just a total waste of makeup.”

“I went to school high. You went to high school.”

“I like my women like my coffee: not at all.”

“No, you cannot try on my hijab.”

“Veni vidi vici.” – Tool

“I may be a ginger, but I do have a soul.”

“You’ve got to be bottomless to get to the top.”

“Yo, make up a quote for me. I’m not at school.”

“I was Beyoncé in a school full of Michelles.”

“Yes, the carpet matches the drapes.”

“Veni vidi vici.” – Jewel

“Our parents all had sex the same year. That’s cool.”

“A walk of shame begins with a single step.”

“Veni vidi vici.” – Deadpool

“Bruh, we graduated just to go back to school.”

James Davis (he/his) is the author of Club Q (Waywiser, 2020), which Edward Hirsch selected for the Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Literary Review , Bennington Review , Best New Poets , Copper Nickel , The Gay & Lesbian Review , and elsewhere. He is an Associate Poetry Editor for Narrative Magazine and a Voertman-Ardoin Fellow at the University of North Texas. Originally from Colorado Springs, he now lives in Denton, Texas, where he is pursuing a PhD.

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Pronouns: She/They

On the verge of so many symptoms.

Her father a neurotic academic.

The chill of countless opinions.

She thinks she'll make another gold album

after she dumps the ginny alcoholic

on the verge of so many symptoms.

Hungry for Venice, Tokyo--but she has no income,

camps in her father's attic,

chilly, writing songs of countless opinions.

She harmonizes into her phone; computer's broken.

Replayed, her voice sounds anemic,

She lights a candle, knowing it's superstition.

There are too many rituals for her to mimic,

in the thrall of countless opinions.

A hundred new photos wink for her consideration.

The sight sends her into a panic.

On the verge of so many symptoms,

in the chill of countless opinions.

Jen Currin (she/they) is the author of five books, including Hider/Seeker: Stories , a 2018 Globe and Mail Best Book, and The Inquisition Yours , winner of the 2011 Audre Lorde Award for Lesbian Poetry and a finalist for a LAMBDA. Jen lives on the unceded territories of the Qayqayt, Musqueam, and Kwantlen Nations (New Westminster, BC, Canada, a suburb of Vancouver), and teaches writing at Kwantlen Polytechnic University.

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Evaporating Villanelle for Algae Bloom

We all have secrets we would like to keep

to ourselves. Sure, the sea is no different.

The whole grave mass of it could cover up

oil spills, plastics. But they spike into shape,

those hourglass whorls to see in the distance.

but still resuscitate. Regret’s lewd,

a sour bite that shows up for tea;

the whole grave mass of it could

foul the interstitial brood

with its vast swirl, its Milky Way.

We all have secrets we would

label scarlet tide or sea snot—

endless whirl of dishonor—

the whole grave mass of it

we fail to save

with mere skimmers,

this whole grave

we all have.

Jen Karetnick 's (she/her) fourth full-length book is The Burning Where Breath Used to Be (David Robert Books, September 2020), an Eric Hoffer Poetry Category Finalist, an IPPY EVVY winner, and a Kops-Fetherling Honorable Mention. Co-founder and managing editor of  SWWIM Every Day, she has work appearing recently or forthcoming in  Barrow Street , The Comstock Review , december , Matter, Michigan Quarterly Review , Terrain.org , and elsewhere.

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Something Simple as a Sock Can Break You

You are carrying a heavy load

of laundry up the stairs, drop a sock,

bend to pick it up, another goes,

and then some boxers. Again, you’re bowed.

You feel this day was made to mock

you, carrying a heavy load.

All scooped up, and now it’s time to fold,

match. Where is your son? Why is he not back?

Bend to rub the dog, another goes.

Then you hear the frig groan. It’s so old.

The vet calls – you bounced another check.

You are carrying a heavy load.

Something simple as a sock, and you implode.

A tremor shakes the house. L.A. No shock.

Bend to grab a sock, another goes.

Ringing. Can’t find your phone. Your patience erodes.

The clothes cling with static. Don’t take stock.

Bend to pick it up, or let it go.

Jennifer Wheelock (she/her) is a poet and painter living in Los Angeles. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in many journals and anthologies, including Chattahoochee Review , Muse/A Journal , Cortland Review , Los Angeles Review , Post Road , Valparaiso Review , Lake Effect , Flycatcher , Diagram , River Styx , Atlanta Review , and The Inflectionist Review . She works at the University of Southern California.

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Fool Me Twice: A Manifesto by the ADA’s Able-Bodied Self-Appointed Guards

Of course we should be kind – if it’s real – but

a squeak of wheels does not always sound true!

I watched him stand and walk! He’s faking it.

“My pain!” she cried from Helen’s lips – that slut –

too pretty—agony cannot be truth.

Of course we should be kind if it’s real, but

the other day a well-dressed man saw fit

to ease his Jag into the only blue.

I smelled the Franklins, and I knew: he’s faking it.

And bratty kids you can tell just need to get hit,

not given IEP’s for poor me boo-boo’s.

Of course, we should be kind – I’m just saying – but

I heard his rumbling laugh, and then – no shit –

he said he was depressed. Yeah, right. Boo-hoo.

I’m sick, too. Sick of all this faking it.

Can’t lift! Can’t sit! Can’t work! Can’t eat nuts!

It’s too convenient, I say. Who pays? You.

what if what if what if they’re faking it?

The Spokesperson for the Perpetually Broken Elevator Beside the Stairway to Heaven Responds to Pesky Activists

It’s inconvenient ( you’ll say “Who pays? All do…”):

the elevator’s out until next year.

A squeak of wheels may not always roll through,

so don’t expect the world to spin ‘round you.

Stop screaming “Access is a Right!” – Dumb cheer.

It’s inconvenient, we know. Who pays you

to harass hard-working hard-hat folk, who

just need some time – the finish line is near!

The squeaky wheel will not get greased or through

to anyone who gives a damn if you

refuse to be polite. Listen, Sweet Dears,

you’re inconvenient, I say. Who pays? We do

when you chain your chairs and chant – and look at you,

not even in a chair! Lazy! Climb the stairs!

Don’t squeak your feels; just wait until we’re through.

It won’t take long – this time we promise you,

so wheel to the side and keep the walkway clear.

Don’t inconvenience those who say they’ll pay you

to squeak your wheels out of the way. Let them through.

Elevator Complaint Refrain: A Tour of America

Please wheel to the side and keep the walkway clear.

In Washington, the freedom blossoms fall;

New York, New York, where Liberty looms near

but not for those stuck in stations far from all.

When Kansas twisters roar the sound of fear,

we run down stairs in ground beneath the hall –

We thought Berkeley would be the place where we’re

welcomed, but like elevators, progress stalls.

In Coastal Georgia, tourists cradle beers

up Savannah’s steep stairways until they fall.

The elevator’s out until next year.

From sea to sea, we hold this value dear:

freedom to climb the rungs for (almost) all.

Jessica Melilli-Hand ’s (she/her) work appears in the Carolina Quarterly , CALYX , Redactions: Poetry & Poetics , Hunger Mountain , Painted Bride Quarterly , Barrow Street , and the minnesota review , among others. She won first place in the Agnes Scott Poetry Competition three times: when judged by Terrance Hayes, when judged by Arda Collins, and when judged by Martín Espada. She is an assistant professor of English at the College of Coastal Georgia.

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Stay at Home

I am in the days I dreamed I would live,

baby at my breast, child by my side,

and yet, I wonder, how much can I give?

Because to feel the arc, to be alive,

I must have the poem of every word wide.

I am in the days I dreamed I would live.

My yearn refrain, time to write, time to live ,

no tears or swaying, the mother aside.

And yet, even then, how much can I give?

Why is it always we must wait to live,

the pull of hunger tide rising inside?

I wish through hours, I do this to live,

not wanting to break, not wanting to hide.

And yet, I wonder, how much can I give?

Today, both board the bus, wired, alive,

and I return to only me inside.

and yet, I wonder, how much I can give.

Julie E. Bloemeke  (she/her) is the 2021 Georgia Author of the Year Finalist for Poetry.  Her debut full-length collection Slide to Unlock  (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2020) was also chosen as a 2021 Book All Georgians Should Read. An associate editor for South Carolina Review, she was a finalist for the 2020 Fischer Prize. Her poems, essays, and interviews have appeared in numerous publications including  Writer’s Chronicle ,  Prairie Schooner , Cortland Review ,  Gulf Coast , EcoTheo Review , and others. 

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Music Camp, 1968

I don’t know exactly where his hand was—

hanging over my shoulder, but how far down?

Did I tell you he never kissed me?

We sat on a bench behind the lakeside stage,

the All-State band rehearsing Sousa.

Did his arm cross the back of my camp shirt,

damp palm stretching past damp pit… to breast?

Is it odd to you that we never kissed? 

My face sunburn-hot with shame or thrill

I stared ahead, could not move. How long did we sit?

I must’ve known exactly where his hand was.  

I don’t know why we weren’t missed

from wherever eighth graders were meant to be.

Can you tell me why he never kissed me?

All I knew was the heat, the wet. Garbled

music in buzzing ears. He was a trumpet player.

I know exactly his eyes, his mouth. But his hand?

Did I ever tell you he said he’d write me?

Karen Paul Holmes (she/her) has two poetry collections, No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin, 2018) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich, 2014). Her poems have been featured on Garrison Keillor’s The Writer's Almanac  and Tracy K. Smith’s The Slowdown . Publications include Diode , Valparaiso Review , Verse Daily , Prairie Schooner , and many more.

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Lakeside Villanelle

Each month the moon breaks over Windermere.

The stars, unaltered, tremble, streak and, and spill.

Our brash ghosts flung from memory’s mists appear.

Fir-flakes and pebbles, forest-stalks adhere.

Our backs, incautious, press against that hill.

 Our bodies young, our promises sincere.

 Lapped by darkness, we lightly take our fill.

 Our brash ghosts flung from memory’s mists appear.

                                                                           

An ocean and the years can’t interfere.

Our small sounds break the lakeside silence still.

Not fabulous enough for balladeer,

Our legend charms our ages, leaves us chill.

We join again, each from a separate sphere,

Recast our moonlit images at will.

Each month the moon breaks over Windermere

Mad Crone Villanelle

No one wanted me but I can’t seem to care.

This life is hard enough without regrets.

I don’t need pity, sorry eyes, or prayer.

I loved once or twice but each banal affair

ended raggedly with savage tears and threats.

I pot my herbs and potter ‘round my lair,

accumulating tales, discharging debts.

The children often dance away and stare.

I know the rumors say I’ve lost my wits.

They want acquittals, fixes, spells, a share

of what they think a canny ancient gets.

I stride with unbowed back and feral hair,

give myself to none, write brash, unread vignettes.

Kate Falvey 's (she/her) work has been published in an eclectic array of journals and anthologies; in a full-length collection,  The Language of Little Girls  (David Robert Books); and in two chapbooks,  What the Sea Washes Up  (Dancing Girl Press) and  Morning Constitutional in Sunhat and Bolero  (Green Fuse Poetic Arts). Kate edits the  2 Bridges Review , published through City Tech/CUNY, where she teaches, and is an associate editor for the  Bellevue Literary Review .

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It wasn’t her boobs that appealed to this gay fellow

or the fact that she wore a red bikini thong.

She was a superhero with fangs, my gal Vampirella

—no tangled-up Rapunzel, no ashen Cinderella.

An ass-kicker in knee boots ready to get it on

with any handsome, hot-blooded earthly fellow.

I fell under her spell too, I have to tell you,

though her curves didn’t appeal to my ten-year-old dong. 

Still I was bewitched and bedeviled by Vampirella

and her pulp-mag adventures, their pages long yellowed

along with old comics left in boxes too long.

In back of the Book Mart, past the fat owner fella,

is where I found her, a slick cover by Frazetta

peeking out past Creepy and Eerie, one shelf-rung

below forbidden Playboy : my wild bitch, Vampirella !

She fought werewolves, demons, witches, night terrors;

she seduced handsome men with her succubus song.

Though I followed her stories, I never could tell

a soul that I wanted what every straight fellow shouldn’t:

to be a hot vampire chick and super-strong—

my high-heeled, raven-haired, bikini-clad Vampirella.

At ten, I was a good kid, no holy terror,

though I suspect my parents feared I was turning out wrong.

Maybe that’s why they let their queer little fellow

spend his allowance on soft-core mags that might quell

a desire already starting to steer him along.

Blame me. Don’t you dare blame double-D Vampirella.

*"Vampirella" was originally published in the anthology Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books (Minor Arcana Press).

Kelly McQuain 's (he/his) poetry has appeared in American Poetry Review , Best New Poets 2020 , The Pinch , Painted Bride Quarterly , The Philadelphia Inquirer , Rogue Agent , Spunk , and Cleaver , as well as such anthologies as The Queer South and Rabbit Ears: TV Poems . He is the author of Velvet Rodeo , which won the Bloom chapbook poetry prize. His poem, “Ruby on Fire” won the inaugural Glitter Bomb Award from Limp Wrist .  

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Glitter in the Air  II

There have never been flowers in my hair.

I’ve never watched sunlight stream

through a fistful of glitter in the air.

It’s not as if I don’t care

to wallow, to while away time and dream,

but there have never been flowers in my hair.

I let sensibleness shadow. I beware

the foolishness clearly seen

in a fistful of glitter in the air.

There must be music somewhere

or love or poetry to mellow me like cream.

There have never been flowers in my hair

but I know it’s possible to weave them there—

petals like stained-glass in sunlight’s gleam—

like a fistful of glitter in the air.

Someday I will dare

to not be who I seem.

No fistful of glitter in the air.

Kerry Trautman (she/her) is a poetry editor for  Red Fez , and her work has appeared in various anthologies and journals such as  Midwestern Gothic ,  Rat's Ass Review ,  Alimentum , Slippery Elm , Paper & Ink , and  Free State Review . Her poetry books are  Things That Come in Boxes  (King Craft Press 2012,)  To Have Hoped  (Finishing Line Press 2015,)  Artifacts  (NightBallet Press 2017,) and  To be Nonchalantly Alive  (Kelsay Books 2020.)

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Villanelle for the Geology Next Time

                        After Kathryn Yusoff, after James Baldwin

Because the world is always already turning

to face the storm writing its weather,

I have begun this poem and torn it up too many times

Because I keep seeing the face of my father in mine

torment of knowing whence I came and where I’m headed

in the midst of this world’s burning—

How to quilt and fasten lyric from semblance of jawline into spine

apologue of ore and jewel, ossified endurance of elements sutured together

huddled against a fictitious linearity of cascade and brim of time

Mistake of first/then, before/after, of nucleic acid for bloodline

forgotten enfolding of amoeba and algae, of laurel and heather

of grey wolf and whale—chorus of creatures pacing the planet’s turning

Bodying vine into vertebrae sentimental sediment we intertwine

metamorphic stone of lime, quartzite eye, of flock, of a feather

committed to act, to be in danger, to endanger far too long in time

If we cannot love each other when we are soft, down of pine

crest of palisade, break of tide, none of us will survive whether

or not the world is always already burning, still turning

away from or into what we have invented and torn up too many times

KJ Cerankowski (he/his) is a queer writer based in Cleveland, OH. His poetry and prose have appeared in Paper Darts ; DASH ; Short , Fast, & Deadly ; The Account: A Journal of Poetry , Prose , and Thought , and Home is Where You Queer Your Heart (Foglifter). His collection of hybrid essays, Suture , is forthcoming with punctum books.

Liz Ahl.jpg

Watching the Blood Moon

Tonight the moon burns white, the moon burns red,

and then, unshadowed, shifts and sifts the light

and floats a grand finale overhead.

Though we were tired, and might have gone to bed

and dreamt the dreams we’d meant to dream tonight,

we watch the white moon’s slow burn down to red

the way a coal might seethe before it’s dead.

But this moon oozes back to life and light

and floats its grand finale overhead.

Driving, we pursued the moon. It led

us to this lakeside where the breeze is slight

but seems to push the moon from white to red,

and back again. The stars blink, sewn by threads

of constellations to the sky. Moonlight

washes them out, returning overhead.

It’s dust. It’s blood. It’s harvest. Then, to bed

where lesser dreams will be eclipsed tonight

by a shadowed moon that dims from white to red,

Liz Ahl (she/her) is the author of Beating the Bounds (Hobblebush Books, 2017), as well as several poetry chapbooks from Slapering Hol Press, Seven Kitchens Press, and Pecan Grove Press. Individual poems have appeared in Lavender Review , Mezzo Cammin , Nimrod , Atticus Review , Sinister Wisdom , Prairie Schooner , Crab Orchard Review , and in other literary journals and anthologies. She lives in Holderness, New Hampshire.

M.M DeVoe.jpg

After the Audition

I paced. Behind the plate glass door, I heard

the telephone’s abrasive voice dissect

a hollow silence.  “Say the fucking word,”

I hissed. The leaden pencils’ scratch conferred

no details of the one they would select.

a hesitating mutter and absurd

exaggerated laughter intersect

in hollow silence. “Say the fucking word,”

I pleaded, but the sentry walls deterred

all knowledge which was more than indirect.

a fist crash on a desk. My ears inferred

disorder, and I felt a voice project

through hollow silence, “Say the fucking word!”

With sudden clarity, a phrase (no longer blurred)

complied: there is just one we must reject…

a hollow silence speak the final word.

M. M. DeVoe (she/her) is a female person but a nonbinary writer. Instead, she writes across genres, frequently blending them, and champions the cause of every form of writing.  Most recent accomplishments are a 2020 Pushcart nomination, two inclusions in 2020 anthologies and in 2021, her first full-length publication, a guide for parents who are hoping to stay on creative track in their writing: BOOK & BABY (Brooklyn Writers Press), which won first prize at the 2021 Indie Awards.  

Marc Frazier.jpeg

Marc Frazier

While Birds Sing: A Villanelle

You arrive full of need every day.

Sometimes I wish a season will end.

I want to say I’ll never go away.

We both try to keep fear at bay.

Our words break but never seem to bend.

When dawn comes I’ll know what to say.

Imagine a letter I don’t intend to send.

While lilacs last I ask you to stay.

Shorter days tame my impulse to tend.

At times the moon’s waxing prompts me to pray.

Strong  joints can untie like a fisherman’s bend.

We can’t predict how much our grief will weigh.

Or why our choices cause a wall to ascend.

Neil de la Flor and Maureen Seaton.jpg

Neil de la Flor &

 maureen seaton.

Neil's Pronouns: He/His

Maureen's Pronouns: She/Her

A Box of Boys

Marc Frazier (he/his) is a Chicago-area LGBTQ writer who has published in journals including  The Gay and Lesbian Review ,  Slant , Permafrost , Plainsongs , Poet Lore ,  Ascent ,  Gargoyle ,  Into the Void ,  RHINO ,  The Tampa Review , et al. A recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Award for poetry, he has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His three books, including his latest,  Willingly , are available at online booksellers.

Matthew Hittinger.jpg

Don't rush, hour,

parade in cologne

the yet-to-sour

cloud of perfume and powder

the soap halo of fresh-from-the-shower, hour

of the possible, of trouser

crease and run-free hose

blouse and ironed shirt, sour

breath scoured, the fully charged phone,

unread text, hour

of no regrets, power in the bone and stone of last night's whiskey sour

the hour we devour our

lone poses and supposes.

Don't rush, hour; too soon will it all sour.

Matthew Hittinger (he/his) is the author of  The Masque of Marilyn  (GOSS183, 2017),  The Erotic Postulate  (2014) and  Skin Shift  (2012) both from Sibling Rivalry Press, and three chapbooks. His work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, has been adapted into art songs, and in 2012  Poets & Writers Magazine  named him a Debut Poet on their 8th annual list. Matthew lives and works in New York City.

Maureen Seaton.JPG

Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead

           —Warren Zevon, 1991

’ Cause I got some weird ideas in my head

regarding things I’d like to do in Denver

(or Miami or Manhattan) when I’m dead,

or, for that matter, when I’m almost ready

to be dead—so I’d best be fast and clever.

Cause I got some weird ideas in my head

about things I bet you thought I never said

or ever dreamed I said out loud whenever I found myself dead in Denver or half-dead

in Dallas or Santa Fe where I once fled a ranch of ghosts, all unearthly-gendered

’cause I got some weird idea in my head

that maybe I could meet you in bed instead

of waiting to rendezvous in Denver (or Manhattan or Miami) when I’m dead.

That’s my end of life proposal, old friend.

What have we got to lose except forever?

’Cause I got some weird ideas in my head.

Can’t wait to go to Denver when I’m dead.

*Listen to Warren Zevon's " Things to do in Denver When You're Dead. "

Maureen Seaton (she/her) has authored numerous poetry collections, both solo and collaborative, most recently, Undersea (JackLeg, 2021) and Zero-Zero (Anhinga, 2021, with Kristine Snodgrass). Her honors include the Florida Book Award, Lambda Literary Award, Audre Lorde Award, NEA, and Pushcart. Her memoir, Sex Talks to Girls (University of Wisconsin, 2008, 2018), also garnered a “Lammy”. She was voted Best Poet 2020 by the Miami New Times and is Professor Emerita of Creative Writing at the University of Miami.

Raina Puels.jpg

Alien Queen

So you want me to be your Alien Queen forever?

Worship my green cunts—remember—I’m the one in power.

Prove our orbits should always sync together

by coming aboard me for a deep space adventure.

If you probe my dark matter at all unearthly hours

& eclipse my expectations, I’ll queen your dungeon forever.

See that purple pregnant dragon guarding treasure?

Genuflect. Tickle her scowl. I promise she won’t devour.

Very good, my subject! May we always wear these jewels together.

I’ll tether your wrists in ethically sourced unicorn leather

& ride your face while we cruise through meteor showers.

Could you handle my gravity if I was your queen forever?

Dick me hard, dick me deep, dick me tender— my moans sonic boom-boom-booming even louder. Hubble named us Triple Lindy for how we writhe together.  

Because you proved my pleasure is your pleasure,

I invite you—My Consort—to move into my tower.

I’m your Alien Queen always & forever;

one day, I’ll allow you to cum while we’re together.

Raina K. Puels (she/they) is a queer/poly Boston-based writer, educator, and kinkster. She holds an MFA from Emerson College and reads poems for  Split Lip Mag . You can find their writing in  The Rumpus ,  Hobart After Dark ,  PANK , and many other places listed on their website

Rebekah Wolman.jpg

Taking You Out To The Ballgame

You’re sure you have no interest in baseball

but I’m telling you to give it just a chance.

I have the tickets anyway—this one’s my call.

You’re outraged and disgusted by the gall

of MLB to charge so much to watch a dance

of overpaid, outgrown boys on a field with a ball.

I promise, though, when you see a home run clear the wall

you’ll become a fan, swept up in the game’s romance.

You’ll lean forward in your seat to catch the umpire’s call;

you’ll recognize the difference, however small,

between a forkball and a splitter; you’ll take a stance

when the umpire calls a blatant strike a ball.

And then there’s looking at the players, whether tall

or short, whether wearing the knickers or the pants.

If nothing else, on points of fashion you can make a call.

A few more games and you’ll be subject to the pall

a loss casts over the field. You’ll succumb to the trance

of watching the arc and the curve of the ball.

You’ll know why when a game is on I don’t take your call.

Hubris And Humbling

What’s all this about writing a perfect poem

like landing a fish with a well-aimed spear

when every line I launch out on its own

drifts moping, limp, bedraggled, home?

They ring their tinny bells against my ear,

taunting my pursuit of the perfect poem.

The next words I set free to roam

seem sure to bring me somewhere near

but all these lines I launch out on their own

lose their substance, dissolve into foam,

and I rein them desperately back in fear

that I’m losing sight of my perfect poem.

I could fill a foot-thick tome

with words I’ve scrawled and then watched veer

off course, charting paths of their own

toward islands where they land, alone.

Maybe it’s enough ­— what I have right here —

not trying to write some perfect, imagined poem

out of lines perfectly happy on their own.

Rebekah Wolman (she/her) is a recently retired educator living in San Francisco and returning to poetry after a long detour. Her poems have appeared in decades past in the  Berkeley Poetry Review  and  Essential Love, an anthology of poems about parents and children, and more recently in  The New Verse News .

Roberto Christiano.jpg

Telenovelas are Hell

    after the YouTube videos

This much I know—telenovelas are hell.

The storylines repeat until you’re sick

just like the crazy lines of a villanelle.

How often can Maria fall under a spell?

First her pimp then that sorry gringo Rick.

Her house burns down, she’s thrown in a well.

Her bad ass father pulls her out with a stick

and chants the crazy lines of a villanelle,

which of course turns her into a gazelle.

(He’s a warlock and he’s pretty damn slick.)

Her godmother Lucia rings a mystic bell,

incants a rhyme of scary loco magic—

only this will nix the lines of a villanelle.

Human once more, Maria’s perfectly swell

till her father returns and bites her like a tick.

This much I know—telenovelas are hell

just like the crazy curse of a villanelle.

Roberto Christiano (he/his) won the 2010 Fiction Award from The Northern Virginia Review for his story, “The Care of Roses.” His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner (Pushcart Nominated), Poetry Quarterly , The Washington Post , New Verse News , Beltway Quarterly , Hiram Poetry Review , and The Sow’s Ear . He has won two consecutive prizes from Writer.org for seasonal poetry. He is anthologized in The Gavea-Brown Book of Portuguese-American Poetry . His book, Port of Leaving , published by Finishing Line Press, is forthcoming next year.

Rupert Fike.jpg

Readers' Advice to Writers    

           - after Robert Graves

We can always imagine a better story

than the truthful account of what you've seen,

a stretcher or two might well bring you glory.

Like with Ahab's quest, his Memento Mori -

whole chapters given to whale-blubber scenes -

we wanted to scream, "Get back to the story!"

Our love of books has made us your quarry,

yet we do grow bored same as screen-obsessed teens -

try a stretcher or two, they might bring you glory.

Plus some blood never hurts, like Richard Corey's

bullet in his head - so shocking, obscene,  

we couldn't have imagined a better story.

Homer's shameless whoppers left little worry

that those rhymes would remain a joy to sing -

epics with stretchers truly bring lasting glory.

If you stick to the truth you'll end up sorry.

Listen up. Don't pout. You know what we mean.

We can always imagine a better story.

A stretcher or two might well bring you glory.

Rupert Fike 's (he/his) second collection of poems, Hello the House , was named one of the "Books All Georgians Should Read, 2018" by The Georgia Center for the Book. It also won the Haas Poetry Prize from Snake Nation Press. His poems and stories have appeared in The Southern Poetry Review , Scalawag Magazine , The Georgetown Review ,   A&U America's AIDS Magazine , The Flannery O'Connor Review , The Buddhist Poetry Review , Natural Bridge , and others. He has a poem inscribed in a downtown Atlanta plaza.

Shelly Rodrigue.jpeg

That Should Have Been a Boy

That should have been a boy, my grandpa said,

his eldest son a failure in his eyes

when I was born a girl. He shook his head

to clear the hopes I’d dashed when I was bred.

With me, the family name would not survive.

That should have been a boy , my grandpa said,

his embarrassment staining my cheeks red.

This chorus was repeated from the time

when I was born. A girl, he shook his head,

and laughed at rifles I refilled with lead

and begged him once to let me have a try.

but never took me hunting, though I pled.

He said someday I’d make a decent wife.

When I was born a girl, he shook. His head

decided then it was my job to wed,

imagining a groom, but not my bride.

That should have been a boy , my grandpa said.

When I was born a girl, he shook his head.

Shelly Rodrigue (she/her) is a lesbian poet who was born and raised in Louisiana. She currently resides in Texas with her partner of 12 years. Rodrigue has an M.F.A. from the University of New Orleans. She teaches English at the University of Holy Cross in addition to teaching ESL to children online.

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COMMENTS

  1. Limp Wrist Concerts & Live Tour Dates: 2024-2025 Tickets

    Limp Wrist is a queercore straight edge-hardcore punk band featuring members of Los Crudos, Hail Mary, and Kill the Man Who Questions. Referring to their style of hardcore punk music, the band declared in Frontiers Newsmagazine, "We put the 'core' back in homocore". Their first recording was the self-released demo Don't Knock It Till ...

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    Limp Wrist is an American punk rock band, who formed in 1998. Featuring members of Los Crudos, Hail Mary, Devoid of Faith, By the Throat, and Kill the Man Who Questions, the band plays short, fast hardcore music, and covers themes concerning the gay community in their live performances and lyrics. They are an openly gay band and they identify as part of the "queercore" punk subculture.

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    Limp Wrist is a hardcore punk band featuring members of Los Crudos, Hail Mary, and Kill the Man Who Questions. Referring to their style of hardcore punk music, the band declared in Frontiers Newsmagazine, "We put the 'core' back in homocore". Their first recording was the self-released demo Don't Knock It Till You Try It.

  10. Limp Wrist

    Limp Wrist is an American punk rock band, who formed in 1998. Featuring members of Los Crudos, Hail Mary, Devoid of Faith, By the Throat, and Kill the Man Who Questions, the band plays short, fast hardcore music, and covers themes concerning the gay community in their live performances and lyrics. They are an openly gay band and they identify as part of the "queercore" punk subculture.

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    Limp Wrist, Raised Fist . Limp Wrist emerged in 1998 from a Philadelphia basement. Their first performance a year later at Stalag 13, a now-defunct venue in West Philly known for its status as a punk powerhouse, carried them into the subcultural consciousness. Cover for "Thee Official Limp Wrist Discography"

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  21. limpwrist photos on Flickr

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    Elevator Complaint Refrain: A Tour of America . Please wheel to the side and keep the walkway clear. In Washington, the freedom blossoms fall; the elevator's out until next year. New York, New York, where Liberty looms near. but not for those stuck in stations far from all. Please wheel to the side and keep the walkway clear.

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