REVIEWED BY ANNA UREÑA AND NIKOLAI GARCIA
Not quite a dive bar, and not quite a chicken shack, Crawfords sits on Beverly boulevard, with its door wide open, welcoming anybody who walks by. We went in, with no expectations, checking out the place to see what was on the menu. We noticed that were no seats available so then we started heading toward the door when Nikolai spotted some empty tables at the far corner of the bar near the pool table.
Usually we think of things how they seem. We’re elastic bands though we may seem
like human beings.
I like licking the white plastic torn pure from the top of white yogurt containers—
vanilla. Millions of live bacteria trying to see her
in Manila without color and without eyes
help to maintain my bodily balance.
Looking out from ideas mistaken for eyes for one another
is time: a weird diamond
getting harder and full of emptier,
we are deaf ear tempters clenching diamonds because we come from black holes.
BY ANNA UREÑA
Luka Fisher has been an unofficial patron of the arts for DRYLAND since its inception in 2015. I don’t know how she heard about us back then but I liked the work she sent us and published her short films and multimedia pieces. After that, we were showcasing photographers, filmmakers, performance artists, and poets like Gina Canavan, Kayla Tange, Matthew Kaundart, Chelsea Bayouth, Leila Jarma, and Mike Leisz—artists who were all tracing back to Luka Fisher. After a non-investigation into who she was (I don’t lurk, I’m oldschool like that), it was clear that this would one day require a meet up.
the optimum time
What you think you’re doing?
Peeking through a plank with a five inch-knothole.
Fake ID from three different states.
Sneaking into the old movie house without paying.
Staring at the Old Master and declaring,
I can paint better than this shit.
The prophet buried
in the soil of Eden
to balance the clock
and the globe
My window is adorned with planets.
Waiting is the small orgy
of wet arms and parabola necks.
Someone had to flirt with the errors
we face, when midnight blurs a teary star
from the face of the ancients.
This is the edge of hope
where curtains fall
and follow through with an actor’s murder.