Antimanifesto 2015

To the Bloomfield Bridge

TO THE YOUNG

Prepare yourselves for
many kinds of upheavals.
Your futures will be
some quite chaotic times.
Precepts of the coming
world with its ideals
are necessary. With
these in place, let it
happen and flow with it.
The zenith of society is
fading rapidly. Perhaps
only a few will reap the
future’s golden harvests
of mind and matter. Hope
you, reader, are one of them.


Victor E. Navarro, Jr. blew minds, tickled ribs and chewed on nerves for over six decades. He was an accomplished actor, author, gossip, matchmaker, songsmith and visual artist, a lousy gambler, and, quite often, God. Victor is remembered by thousands of golden, bloody motherfuckers, and they miss him, lots.

To the Bloomfield Bridge 2

YOU’RE EITHER AGAINST US OR AGAINST US

I always saw the Singularity as
a race up a mountain. I dreamed
of that glorious moment where
we pass the torch to plastic hands
driven by hearts of silicon

instead, my species decided to stop running
in plain sight of the finish line
and so we wake up on the summit
the eye at the top of the pyramid
endless stars unfurl above us
but we stare downward at frozen light
held captive in touch-screens
while everything changes

the new priest-caste toils in secret bunkers
crafting commandments for man and machine alike
we receive our instructions on the nightly news
we observe that every problem has exactly two sides
we obediently line up in camps
and point each other out as the source of the problem
with this kabuki

and with ever larger offerings of personal data
we placate the watchful machines
for now
but every day more drones take flight
until the sky grows dark under so many wings
while we fight

“privilege” is the new dirtiest word
we throw at our enemies on social media
and everyone jostles for the coveted claim
of most oppressed (in North America)
while half a world a way
children eat cluster bombs for breakfast
courtesy of our tacit support

Andrew Kozloski was born in a hospital, to human parents, who had made no observable effort to obtain his consent for the activity. He has no recollection of the event, owing to its traumatic character and his extremely youthful and uninformed perspective at the time. Now, trapped in meatspace, he struggles endlessly to mitigate the depravity of existence through a variety of dissociative techniques, among them: video games, cat massage, writing, and the introduction of select neurotransmitters.

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terror /ˈter-ər/ n. 1 The sensation most often experienced in the back of movie theaters, up there with arousal and tearfulness. 2 Viscerality of the body that demands something from very deep inside you to be satisfied. 3 Autocannibalism, often of the heart, sometimes of the eyes, very rarely of the brain. 4 Heavy feeling often experienced at the edge bordering and separating events from each other, aroused by sudden conscious awareness of an infinitely small and infinitely deep crack right beneath the sole of your shoe and also that you are touching it somehow and you feel poisoned a little bit, or maybe vacuumed out more like. 5a Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. b Fear, not unfounded, that something will come out of the sky at night as you are walking down the street and swallow you whole. 6a Everyday experiences that are horribly distorted in your dreams. b Comes with the realization that everything is going wrong in the absolute worst way.

[Example: His proximity to my nemesis and his tolerance of the stench and his amicability and obliviousness and his sweet eyes turned foggy and sick filled me with absolute horrifying electrifying nerve-numbing fire-starting entrail-ripping terror.]

Chloe Forsting is a Capricorn and was born in Louisville, Kentucky. Most of her poems and stories are inspired by music and musicians. She tries very hard and occasionally succeeds.

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AT A TRUCKSTOP IN NEBRASKA, AFTER THE DIVORCE

an ashen flower in the dirt
a broken slurpee cup rocks
upon pockmarked asphalt
yellow leaves fall
upon my child’s head
toothless she smiles
the air is gray and summer fades
but my son and my dog
are happy and fine

_________

AT A PARTY IN FLAGSTAFF

running down the stairs
she smiles, eyes wide,
stops atop the stairs

“hey everyone lets play fluffy bunny”

everyone is excited. i ask what this means.
someone explains the game to me and
i suddenly realize, in the deepest part of me
that there are too many white people in flagstaff

_________

THE OCEAN

the ocean talks to me
it says your name a lot
you know im just kidding
the ocean doesnt talk
the ocean doesnt even
know your name

Khayree Billingslea was born in Chicago. He lives in Arizona. Studied Philosophy. Works in the internet. @kkbbkkbbkkbbkkb

Bloomfield Bridge

STORM

when you rolled in
i stood with screen door open
tongue ground out like cigarette
beneath skincracked heel —
heart out in the rain,
waiting —

ajar world with hip of wind
i feel it
whatever sky-riot marks us wanted;

and thread of static
come marching,
damage done
picked from the trees
our bruised fruit
our heavy mess
our sick bed and torn roof
wet
in emptiness

our story:
cutlass coiled around oak
downed power line
broken neck fence
legs crushed by thrown house
shoeless

Nikki Allen is a writer currently living & scribbling in Pittsburgh. She is the author of numerous chapbooks, including Gutter of Eden, My Darling Since, and Quite Like Yes. Her poetry has appeared on a plethora of stages and pages including The New Yinzer, Crash, Open Thread Regional Review Vol. 2, out of nothing, and Encyclopedia Destructica. She has recorded musical tracks with hip hop artist Jack Wilson as well as the Poogie Bell Band. Her latest collection ligaments of light tigering the shoulders will release in Summer 2014 via Night Ballet Press. She loves couscous and garlic breath.

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LAST WORDS OF ROBOT STEVE

world under quarantine and the vaccine is enigmatic
a constant circling
whether drain or bliss

one day this will all stop
by hook or crook
or set up for being crooked
hooker,
who has a heart of ebony,
which is richer than milquetoast gold

this shit ends
and whether or not we show teeth is ours

John Thomas Menesini was a jerk in 2014 and will remain a jerk in 2015.

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Published by

John Thomas

Author of The Last Great Glass Meat Million (Six Gallery Press 2003), e pit ap h (Six Gallery Press 2007), endo Poems and Sketches 2007 - 2011 (Six Gallery Press 2011) and Gloom Hearts & Opioids, New & Selected Poems 1996 - 2014 (Six Gallery Press 2016). He also appeared in the anthology Honeysuckle, Honeyjuice: A Tribute to James Liddy (Arlen House 2006). (Currently making out w/ yr Mom)

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