The Resurrection

Lift us from weakness and despair ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ

APRIL 2022

ode
by Antonio Vargas-Nieto
 
but how quickly some doors swing open while
others remain shut     must be the wind
you are not a psychologist but everyone is too afraid to tell you so
must be nice having all the answers     seeing through everyone
my mind moves to transparencies     projectors     classrooms     clouds
of chalk     mandy moore's candy playing on the bus ride home
saccharine     viscous melodies but also chemical heat sensations
from licking my hot cheeto stained fingers clean then looking
at the valleys in my fingerprints and thinking is THIS what makes me unique????
i'm thinking of moments when grade school bestfriends would betray me
before my own eyes seeing the reading rug pulled from under me
in adulthood it happens still one of my most vulnerable moments was
in an expo center turned maze in downtown milwaukee filling out paperwork
for my second covid vaxine you, my bestfriend were ahead of me and
you hurriedlyfilledyourpaperworkandwithoutsayingaword you
sprinted to the line i saw you get up and everything disappeared
the carpet     the walls     the words     there was only The Void
ever expanding between you and me my inner flame faded
only a wisp of smoke and charred wick remained
it's probably me honestly     every time     i get it
i'm weird     and quiet     until i'm not     often confused
for smart definitely sensitive i don't trust my brain enough
to do mental math but i plot     juggle words     set the 
table this spring i won't wait for someone to bring me flowers

Antonio Vargas-Nieto is a Mexican born, Milwaukee raised writer and emulsion enthusiast.
@antonioUV (twitter) & @aantonioov (instagram) 

MY ALIVENESS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN MY LIFE 

When there is only
color in the sky, the Sun
all liquid dropped below
and gone but cloud
film hazy, sweet, and
lush, how that
is something.

by Cy Ozgood

Cy Ozgood is a poet living on the ancestral land of the Ramaytush-speaking Ohlone people, currently known as San Francisco. 
@secret.dirt.lamb (instagram) 

Entropic Fruit
by Noor 

Winter fruit demands decorum. The four crisp leaves on a persimmon are instructional: get a plate, get a knife, cut into quarters. And you do as you’re told. The fruit is sweet, in a no-nonsense way. When you’re done, you wash your hands and carry on. 

As summer peaks around the corner and the air begins to feel thick, everything moves as if through syrup. I had marked the beginning of lychee season in my calendar. Now, after Work, I sit on the balcony in a plastic chair, with my feet propped on a plastic stool. I cradle a steel bowl with six lychees because that is the precise amount the bowl can contain without any fruit resting on top of the other.

When you eat an orange, you can push your thumb into the depression at the top. Then you gently peel the skin in sections, so that it lays like a crude drawing of a flower. The skin of a lychee is brittle, only peeling off in tiny flakes. I got a new nail polish last Sunday, a purple just this side of gray, and painted my nails this morning. Each attempt to unsheath the fruit leaves a pockmark on my thumbnail. Sometimes, the skin pricks the fruit and the juice sprays up on my glasses. You cannot multitask when you eat lychees. I have tried and ended up with nectar-dotted book pages and a sticky escape key on my laptop. The lychee demands your attention. 

Rumor has it that if you eat too many lychees you could break out in a rash. Perhaps that is a rumor made up by my mom to dissuade her child from gluttony. It didn’t work. The flesh of the lychee is oh-so sweet, floral and sinewy. Try as you might, the remnants of the fruit run down your wrist and you have no choice but to lick it clean. It is humiliating. I’m sure if anyone saw me from across the courtyard, in their own balcony, they would empathize. When the fruit is gone, you are left with a smooth pit in your mouth, like an old river stone. I want to go back inside but my fingers stick to each other and the screen door is dusty. I call out to my mom inside to let me in, but I don’t think she can hear me. I sit back down, with nothing to do but wait, as what’s left of the lychee sinks into my skin. 

Noor is a writer and art historian currently based in Delhi-NCR, India. 
@noor.webp (instagram) & @noor_webp (twitter)

Huli Huli Chicken
by Jordan Raf

The endless iridescent jungle fowl rustle within the overgrown flora by the freeway
I continue to rev on the handlebars; I can’t spot them all
There’s at least four or five that I pass by every few seconds
I accelerate further down the road
I breathe in
deep through my mouth and nostrils
Sweet smoke radiates off the makeshift barbecues many locals convert their truck beds into
How did I get here
More importantly how and why, did someone grant me access to a machine 
that catapults my body through the air
forty, fifty miles per hour; I’m levitating off the ground
rapidly being propelled forward
The two tires don’t have much tread left
Who cares
Thank you

The night before, I smoked the clear rock out of a lightbulb
that I frantically unscrewed from the hula girl lamp
in my Airbnb
Grindr
Its effects have since passed 
What should feel like the indefinite torture of my feeble psyche 
has somehow translated into pure and eternal gratitude 
No hangover, no comedown
Bliss?
Some serotonin somehow intact
Existential dread temporarily at bay…
Hmm

Screensaver
Google image
Blue
Green
Beige
White
Light,
Pure light
How

Ok, a dull and persistent headache
The same marble rolls around the groove atop my skull
It’s nothing 
Winding curve after winding curve
Someone smiles and laughs at me from their sedan
I’m sure I look ridiculous
I know I look ridiculous
I smile back
We used to play this game on the school bus

Is this how I submit myself to something greater?
An island?

This is what the beginning of time looked like
Does that even lend itself to anything?
I never liked Jurassic Park

I continue on 
Further and further 
I’m lost now
in a random neighborhood
Rain erupts out of nowhere
Water pours down fast, hard, steady
Right out of the sky
My sunglasses pebble with infinite droplets
I gotta take them off, I can’t see anymore
A song instantly materializes in my head as I slide them into my pocket:

Dee dee doh dum dum day
Dee dee doh dum dum day
I love you island girl.

I drive through the silver rain
It stops-
goes as quickly as it came

Mmm, petrichor…

Rainbow.

One last smile 

Dee dee do dum dum day
Dee dee do dum dum day
I love you island girl.

Jordan Raf is a writer, musician, ceramicist, and occasional actor currently living in Los Angeles.
@jordan_raf (instagram)

spring is the present (selections)
by Mandy Jacobs

I cut oranges into eighths
and suck like a vampire
halftime at the apricot jam
tournament for girls under twelve
who lived where I lived
I was twelve in the past
but it’s spring in the present
spring is the present

what’s not spring is only a dark hallucination