SKYSCRAPER TECTONICS - Shaya Block

From the edge of the river

The backhoe-exorcised

Plates of pleated steel -

Knapped -

Rapture from the earth;

An acheulean hand ax lying in wait.

Some flimsy bit -

From an archeological site -

Of evidence

That people built here;

That there was something worth

Keeping the rain out,

Keeping the bright heat arching

between the steel limbs -

That despite their insignificance

Worked and died here

For something more

Than a ground-pressed stone, the fracture

Of a labored monument.

A pressure-flaked unit of dead time;

Jutting from the sidewalk

Atom thin like a ripple

Of potato chip; Its obsidian edge sheer

Against the scalpel-sliced ozone

By the recent formation of peaks and valleys

Dragging down and cutting through

The space

between the east and west

Rivers

of a more methodical type

Of incision upon the land;

Erosion knapps

With its old whetstone wheel;

And when the banks have long-since been

Washed away and receded -

Constricting the prism of obsidian

From both sides

With diamond-pressure

Two miles of tinted panes

end-to-end, lazily paved

In macadam and cullet rubble.

The Manhattan shelf worn

To palm-sized shards.

The thinness of what’s left

Haiku Collection - Shaya Block

CASUAL MISCOMMUNICATION OVER PIE

You’re such a fucking

Idiot! Ugh! I love you,

But shut your pie hole

DRAWING CONCLUSIONS FROM MY WINDOW

In sunrise squirrels

Chirp and Caw and Rustle and

Brawl for the street nuts

G.O.A.L.S. - GENERAL ORDINARY AUTOMATED LEARNING SYSTEM

Listen up, class is

About to begin after

These quick messages

HOSTAGE NEGOTIATION PHONE CALL NEXT DOOR

Hello? Hello? I

Can’t tell if you’re a robot

Scammer or my son

LATE ESSAY ALL NIGHTER

Stressing a lack of

Time, to boil coffee water

Instead I wait here

MODERN AMERICAN LATE PASS

Even the teacher

Was tardy, the day after

A mild mass shooting

THE MODERN AMERICAN GETTING OF TAIL

Oooh ooh aah aah reach

Around the monkey, grab the

Base tight, up - down - repeat

THE SHRINKAGE FACTORS

I was in the pool

Jerry. Shrinkage! Jerry it

Was shrinkage I swear.

WHEN SOMEONE WON’T STOP

Talking and talking

And talking, and you almost

Ditch society

The Art of Trauma

To excavate this

Foundation at its acme

Hold in the Rubble

THE KINGDOMS OF INFERTILITY - Shaya Block

We can no longer reproduce

With the feminine

Chthonic gods

Of the earth

The underworld

Because we segregated

Ourselves in the strong scent

of static-wet

In the Olympic-clouded sky

As if a strong gaze

Down on the spartans

Wrestling deep

In the unlit barracks

Olive-oil fucking

Until discharged

At 30

Could birth a child

I HAVE A QUESTION FOR POPE URBAN THE VIII - Shaya Block

The roman catholic church ordered

Galileo, upon the heresy of his innovation, to

Cease and desist,

imprisonment or death,

Because

We can’t find heaven

Sandwiched neatly between

The edge of our atmosphere

And the moon,

Swirling around

the grand helios center,

Off center, a wrong step could

Spill the sandwich meat

Of dead relatives and kings -

In the kingdom of Jesus -

At the cosmic deli counter

You don't want to make a mess

Or grab the wrong number

MALT WHISKEY - Shaya Block

I propose a new god

A 40 oz god,

And I wish I knew how to bake bread

Maybe they would teach me.

I could see myself with my vulnerable hand

Dipping it into the levain

Starter, birthed from the mother.

A kernel of rebirth -

Hooking the links

Between chains

Of gluten, stucco-bonded

Endosperm particles smeared firm,

And set to crust.

And Unscrewed from the brown lamp -

Reborn

from the germ of the too-old seed.

Pinching the conveyer-fed bread,

Trying to find the perfect body -

Not too hard, definitely not too soft -

I don’t want bread that doesn’t crack

At the whim of my thumb and forefinger.

I want to sin

To bake into the body

The perfect crispy christness

Break open the sternum

into three steaming hot loaves

That can never love you back

Quite as much as your love for them

Demands from you.

The yeast is too expensive anyway,

So let’s get back to that god.

Wait

Until the seedling pushes forth

Its first shoot, sprouting,

penetrating the husk.

All liquored and fed

Off the old god’s body,

Sopping the stomach

With stale bread,

And letting loose the endosperm

Onto the world’s back.

Push your head

into our fresh air:

Past the bran and down the bottle-neck.

Scrape down

The bowlside-stucco

with a flat-scraper

The paste sticking my hands

To stop me from sinning

With the perfectly-toned

rock-hard body of christ

For The Girls - Victoria Zickas

My name is Victoria (Tori) Zickas and I started taking writing seriously in my freshmen year of college. I usually write poetry, but sometimes I write short stories too. I started off as a criminal justice major here at UAlbany and switched to an English major all because of one creative writing class. Anything is possible :)

***

For all of the ones wearing the pants

Juggling love and independence

Smacking their boyfriends in the back of the head

For saying some stupid, offensive shit

For the ones who stay, even though they shouldn’t

Who lose parts of themselves

Just for a ritualistic sacrifice

For a bummy, butt-ugly man

For all the ones who remain silent

Quietly gagging themselves to

Keep the lunk alarm from going off

Not wanting to disturb the water

For the ones who are constantly let down

By all the men that infiltrate their lives,

Causing grief and strife

Leaving permanent scars in your minds

For the ones hiding in the corners of their mind

Scared to make the much-needed decision

Of ending the generous exploitation

They should have never received

For the ones with the most resilience

Choosing themselves for once

And ending their own cycle

Of borderline self-harm

For the ones that deserved better

Who can’t realize when enough is enough

Because they realized the apathy too late

Or never realized how much value they have

Because another man can love you harder and better

Without having to ask

Or never protected their own peace

For the sake of a man who never truly cared

Or never took the time to explore themselves

Becoming a slave to the “man” who once “saved” you

My personal favorite

Because I am just like you

Anyway, my point is

I would like to personally thank you

So, let me raise a glass

For all of the girls

They tried to take my wild - Tammy Diaz

Tammy is back in school for her second Bachelor's in Spanish. She has been working as a veterinary technician but is now leaning into things she has always been passionate about and didn't give enough time for in the past. Creative writing, speaking Spanish, karaoke, hiking, mental health, and traveling are at the top of the priority list now. She is an independent, Latinx, homeowner in Troy and lives with her three dogs and cat. 

***

All the names I've been called, because of racism, misogyny and ignorance,

swirl in my thoughts. 

They sweep into my head, at random times of day, 

planting their little intrusive thoughts, 

like seeds, trying to take over the garden of my mind. 

The cards were always stacked against me, having been born in a country 

taken by force in the name of colonialism and the patriarchy. 

How dare I have the audacity to look like me. 

When I was born, I looked more Asian. 

My eyes were narrower, and my hair was wild. 

As my hair grew longer and darker, 

the wilder my spirit grew and my joy for life. 

As a child, my brown skin and my black hair, 

Identified me as Latina. 

And only Latina. 

In the 90s, for my friends and I, the word mixed was reserved for African Americans. 

Even though I was also mixed, I never identified myself that way. 

I had obachans* and abuelas.

With my mom, we greeted each other in Japanese in the mornings and when we went to sleep. 

I never saw it as something different, because it was my normal. 

I spoke Spanish with my mom and dad, and English with my friends. 

There was no talk of it being possible to be mixed or blended in any other way. 

I grew up in a very diverse community, but then we moved to Dutchess County in New York. 

The sidewalks I was used to being surrounded by, were now replaced by endless woods. 

The diversity I was used to, was replaced by a sea of white faces, 

in the hallways of the school.  

Unknowingly, the more white friends I made, 

the more I erased my culture to fit in and be smaller.

So as not to stick out.  

I tamed myself as I was expected to, 

and silenced my loud and excited nature. 

You're Mexican, right?

No, she is Filipino. 

What are you?

I started distancing myself from Spanish and my parents for having accents, 

and for not being like all the other parents. 

What do your parents do for work? 

I was embarrassed by these questions. 

Where we used to live, it was normal for immigrant parents to work cleaning houses 

and work in construction. 

But most of these questions came from white adults. 

from my friends' parents. 

Typically, during a dinner I was invited to. 

The initial chance to not be trapped in my house and being able to stay overnight was a lot of fun, 

but I felt deflated when they asked me things like that. 

I suppressed my anger, and my defenses crumpled into timidness. 

I developed the ability to identify and befriend the outcasts,  

or the people that others thought were weird. 

I felt stronger and like I had superpowers, when I stood up for others.

But, for a long time, I couldn't do it for myself. 

I shrank myself even more with all my white boyfriends. 

Can you shave your sideburns?

I straightened my thick, frizzy hair and shaved my arms instead. 

One day the song "Born in the USA" by Bruce Springsteen, was playing, when an ex said to me: 

Does this song make you angry? Because you weren't born here? 

It was a joke, but he always expected me to laugh, 

And to never get too hung up or uptight about anything.  

If I got angry, the stereotypes would come out: 

She's getting feisty! 

Just another angry Latina. 

My partners knew that my mom was Japanese Peruvian, and my father was Chilean.

But their parents never understood it. 

Especially with the rise of racism with immigration issues 

and the border being a hot topic in politics and the news. 

They wanted an easy label for me. 

Tammy is not Latina, she is Asian. 

This is what an ex's mother told me, after knowing me for years. 

As if being Latina was a dirty thing. 

At the peak of my unhappiness and being completely lost,

I cut off all my hair, as if not having the weight of it would free me.

I wanted to untangle from everything that was expected of me.

I wanted to get rid of all the pressure I was feeling.

But I still felt too inadequate to claim any identity.

My cousins in Chile used to tell me:

You are truly a gringa. 

My Latina American amigas, called me preppy, because I was studious and liked school. 

I never identified myself as Asian, because I didn't have any Japanese friends. 

And I only learned bits and pieces of the culture from my obachans, when they came to visit. 

I never knew which box to check on the census.

And it wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that I dove deep 

into appreciating and learning the different parts of my culture.

The different parts of my identity. 

So much history that I didn't know and was never taught; 

And I'm still learning.   

The more I learn, the more my wildness returns. 

I'm more comfortable in my own body than I've ever been. 

My hair will grow long and my wild will regain her power, 

once more. 

My joy of life has returned because I'm now happy being different.

I’m happy being a weird Latina. 

I'm happy I don't fit into a perfect box. 

I am an educated, queer, feminist yonsei-latinx.

Now I'm standing up and defending myself, for once. 

(*Obachan is the Japanese word for grandma)

(*Yonsei is a Japanese diaspora term used in countries such as Latin America, to specify the great-grandchildren of Japanese immigrants. The fourth generation.)

Atenuación - Jelisa Gonzalez

I have to learn to accept 

That I will never one hundred percent

Understand my mother

Being bilingüe

Means speaking to my mother

In a broken spanish

More of the,

“Hi mom ¿como estas?”

And answering 

“ I’m good, ¿Cómo están todo para aya?” 

She will ask me si bebí mi ocho copas de agua,

And I would turn the camera to hide my smirk

From the screen

I did not 

Drink my ocho copas de agua 

To say that I have accepted 

My broken spanish

Is an understatement

La llorona - Jelisa Gonzalez

Soy una llorona,

I am the crier. 

For reasons I want to believe are out of my control. 

For reasons I know are choices within my control.

For reasons I am sure will be carried throughout my life.

Soy una llorona,

For I came out of my mother crying

gasping for respite 

a breather, some air 

more air.

Come to realize that there was never enough air up above that could contain the force that was me.

Soy una llorona,

So much so that as a child 

I would scream, cry, kick,

Anything, 

To receive the attention, I so yearned for,

To be seen.

Soy una llorona,

Que me dicen que soy sensitiva 

Que siento mucho. 

Mucho que no quiero sentir nada despues que yo lloro

Y lloro 

Y lloro 

Me dicen que soy una llorona 

And I give myself grace.

Hold more than just my pain,

Mas que yo soy adulta,

And need to play off fine all the time.

Tendons - Erin Marshall

Were we singular?

As I ripped your arms

And licked your tendons

Or was meat in my mouth just

Enough for me?

As game does in the jungle

Lept, cried

I smiled at your noises

That squeaked out of you,

Slow and yippy

I sank my claws into you and watched

Open mouthed as they pulsed through your skin

I grew lightheaded with each pump

My stomach clear

My nerves pricked and happy

I licked the skin and your warm sweat coated my teeth

You, gave me something more,

Not just food

The plump blood of electric life itself

Swelled with hormones and mind

I hope your last thought is of me

As I hold you in my teeth

And scrape the flavor off your body

And onto my tongue

I TAPPED A CIGARETTE OVER MY EX'S CUNT AND IT SMELLED LIKE NUTRISSE AND PINK WHITNEY - Savannah Mandella

LAST WEEKEND YOU LOOKED AT YOUR ASSHOLE 

IN THE MIRROR, YOUR BACK BENT AT THE EXORCIST ANGLE 

AND YOUR HEAD CRANED BETWEEN YOUR 

KNEES LIKE A CONTORTIONIST PRACTICING A SET, 

TWELVE INCHES FROM THE BATHROOM DOOR 

WHICH YOU DIDN’T REALIZE WAS UNLOCKED 

UNTIL YOUR ROOMMATE JIGGLED THE HANDLE. 

AND AS YOU SHOOED HER AWAY, 

VOICE WEAK FROM THE MUSCLE STRAIN, 

YOUR BRAIN FELT THE NEED 

TO REMIND ITSELF THAT 

YOU USUALLY DON’T DO THINGS LIKE THIS, 

LICKING ITS WOUNDS WITH A PRETENSE OF DECENCY 

LIKE THAT SAME CONTORTIONIST AFTER 

MISTAKING THEIR KNEE FOR THEIR 

ELBOW AND SLIPPING A DISK ON STAGE 

BUT KYLE WAS SUPPOSED TO COME OVER, 

YOUR REFLECTION MEWLED IN PROTEST, 

AND HE WAS GOING TO FUCK YOU 

SO ONCE YOU HAD KICKED 

EVERYTHING ON THE FLOOR 

UNDER THE BED AND LITTERED 

YOUR ENTIRE BODY WITH DAMP 

PINK NICKS FROM THE RAZOR 

AND FILLED UP THAT MAGENTA PLASTIC COMB 

YOU’VE HAD SINCE YOU WERE THIRTEEN 

WITH HARD KNOTS OF DEAD HAIR 

AND JERKED YOURSELF INTO A WHITE 

NYLON JUMPSUIT WITH LACE DESIGNS 

OVER THE TITS THAT MAKE THEM LOOK 

LIKE SOMETHING THAT A MAN WOULD BE INCLINED TO SUCK, 

YOU REALIZED THAT, SHOCK AND HORROR, 

YOU HAD NEVER SEEN YOUR OWN ASSHOLE. 

AND WHETHER OR NOT IT WILL COME OFF AS 

ADEQUATELY ENTICING TO KYLE,

YOU CANNOT CONFIDENTLY SAY. 

AND YOU KNEW GOING INTO THIS THAT 

SOMEWHERE OUT THERE IS A PERSON 

WITH AN ANUS SO IMMACULATE THAT FINEART AMERICA 

PUT IT’S CLOSE UP SHOTS ON AN IPHONE CASE 

THAT YOU CAN BUY AND CARRY AROUND WITH YOU EVERYWHERE FOR 41 BUCKS PLUS SHIPPING. 

AND AS YOU STAND THERE WITH THE BLOOD RUSHING TO YOUR HEAD TRYING TO KEEP YOUR KNEES FROM BUCKLING 

AND LEAVING YOUR GOURD SPLATTERED 

ALL OVER THE LINOLEUM FOR KYLE TO FIND 

YOU’RE STILL FINDING THE STRENGTH TO BE 

KINDA PISSED AT YOUR BEST FRIEND FOR SENDING YOU THAT LINK AS A JOKE. BECAUSE EVEN IF SHE DIDN’T MEAN TO, 

(BLESS HER HEART,) 

SHE GOT YOUR HOPES UP 

THAT YOU, TOO, COULD BE WORTHY OF A FORTY DOLLAR IPHONE CASE, COULD ENTER MISS UNIVERSE KNOWING YOU HAD 

A GUARANTEED WIN IN THE MANGINA CATEGORY, 

COULD FINALLY DISCOVER SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF 

TO BE LOUDLY, BRAZENLY PROUD OF. 

BUT CERTAIN PARTS OF THE BODY DID NOT 

EVOLVE TO BE SCRUTINIZED IN A BATHROOM MIRROR 

AND EVEN THOUGH LOGICALLY YOU KNEW THAT FOR A FACT, YOU ALSO KNEW THAT ALL THOSE MILLENNIA 

OF NATURAL SELECTION AND THEIR SUBSEQUENT IMPACT ON YOUR VARIOUS TUBES AND FOLDS AND COLLAGENS 

ARE NOT KYLE’S FUCKING PROBLEM, 

AND MAYBE THAT’S WHY IT’S A RELIEF THAT 

EVEN AFTER DOING ALL THAT WORK, 

THE JUMPSUIT AND THE COMB AND 

THE STUFF UNDER THE BED AND THE GNAWING 

AT YOUR SPINE 

WHEN YOU FINALLY ALLOW IT 

TO STRAIGHTEN OUT AGAIN, 

HE, KYLE, CASUALLY REVEALS THAT 

HE HAS A MENTAL BLOCK WITH CONDOMS 

THE DANGER OF WHICH IS NOT KYLE’S FAULT,

AS HE HAS A HOST OF PREDICAMENTS THAT HE CALLED: “A LATEX ALLERGY” 

“A THIRTEEN INCH DICK” 

“A WEIRD CURVE IN THE CENTER” 

“A CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH FROM THE CLINIC” AND YOU GET TO LOOK BACK AND REALIZE THAT HE WASN’T JUST ASKING ABOUT YOUR BODY COUNT BECAUSE THAT IS A NORMAL QUESTION TO ASK IN THIS AGE OF THE 

HIGH VALUE MAN AND THE SEX SLAVER PODCAST WHERE THE GIRLS IN LOW CUT TOPS WITH CHUNKY HAIR HIGHLIGHTS SIT IN A CIRCLE WORDLESS AS BLOW UP DOLLS 

AND LISTEN TO A GUY RAMBLE 

ABOUT HOW THEY ARE “SOIL FOR HIS SEED” AND I’M STRONGER, I’M SMARTER, 

I’M BETTER. I AM BETTER. 

KYLE ASKED TO KNOW 

HOW MANY MEN YOU HAD FUCKED BEFORE HIM BECAUSE KYLE WANTED TO BE SURE THAT SOME VENGEFUL ANTEDILUVIAN GOD OF OLD WASN’T GOING TO REACH DOWN AND SMITE HIM WITH HERPAGONASYPHILAIDS 

JUST BECAUSE HE MADE THE MISTAKE OF 

PENETRATING YOUR FRESHLY NAIRED HOLE WITH HIS 6 BY 2 INCHES OF BARE DICK. 

AND YOU THINK ABOUT 

THE MONO YOU GOT FROM THAT 

HALF-EMPTY-HALF-BACKWASH BOTTLE 

OF BLUE RASPBERRY SVEDKA WITH 

AMBIGUOUS BROWN STAINS ON THE RIM 

YOU PUT IN YOUR VIRGIN MOUTH LAST APRIL BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD MAKE 

A COOL SELFIE WHEN YOU WERE 

PLASTERED AT 2 AM 

AND SURELY NOBODY 

BROUGHT ENOUGH ROHYPNOL 

TO TAINT 750 MILLIGRAMS OF LIQUOR. 

YOU THINK ABOUT SHOVING A CARROT 

IN FALLOW SOIL, LOOKING DOWN 

AND SAYING “GROW.”

AND IN THAT MOMENT 

YOU HAVE BEEN TEXTING KYLE 

FOR A WEEK NOW AND YOU HAVE SHARED 

TEN WORDS OVER THE PHONE AND 

HE HAD A NICE VOICE, YOU REMEMBER THINKING, 

SO ONCE YOU’VE TUGGED 

OFF THAT HORRIBLE JUMPSUIT 

AND GOTTEN BACK INTO YOUR EMPTY BED, 

REFUSE RATTLING AROUND UNDERNEATH THE MATTRESS, YOU WANT TO USE YOURS 

TO SAY ALOUD, TO NO ONE, 

THAT YOU’RE NEVER 

GONNA SEE HIM AGAIN 

BUT YOUR LIPS GO TO FORM THE WORDS, 

PUCKERING UP TO THAT O-SHAPE OF MIMETIC PERFECTION LIKE YOU SEE ON THE HUB, 

AND YOU REALIZE THAT YOU NEVER ACTUALLY SAW HIM IN THE FIRST PLACE. 

AND YOU DON’T WANT TO LOOK STUPID DO YOU?