Latest Entries
“Dulce” by Shilie Ahadi
ISSUE 7: JUNE/JULY 2017 / POETRY

“Dulce” by Shilie Ahadi

A taste of gluttony sits on my tongue—
Syrupy sweet; it rots my teeth. It drools
And it runs my lip-insides slippery.
Who am I to feel sorry for these men?

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TONIGHT — “READ BEATS 90x90LA Episode 1” at the Los Angeles Theatre Center
LOS ANGELES EVENTS / NEWS

TONIGHT — “READ BEATS 90x90LA Episode 1” at the Los Angeles Theatre Center

Curated by: Ivan Robles & Peter Woods

Read Beats is the intersection of a literary reading and a live musical performance; an improvisation of word and note.

featuring:

Dez Hope
performance + soundtracking for:
F Douglas Brown
reading from “ICON”

The Six Shooters
performance + soundtracking for:
SondriaWRITES
reading from “Middle of the Night”

TONI TEE & LIQUID WISDOM
performance + soundtracking for:
Miranda Bowden
reading from “The Family Farm”

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The Confessions of an Unconstructed Film Reviewer
ESSAYS

The Confessions of an Unconstructed Film Reviewer

BY STEVEN GRAY

I write reviews of films for people who have already seen them, and to let others know a certain film exists, however foreign, old, obscure, or obtuse.

I use a movie as a starting point and free-associate myself into an essay.

I come up with a five or six-page meditation on the automatic sin machine of cinema.

I may give away the plot or not, while questioning the mass psychology of entertainment. Continue reading

ALBUM REVIEW: Sahtyre ‘Cassidy Howell’
ALBUM REVIEWS / MUSIC

ALBUM REVIEW: Sahtyre ‘Cassidy Howell’

REVIEWED BY DEMITRI ADDERLEY

The human voice has marched soldiers onto the battlefield, separated men from the money in their pockets, and has stripped strangers of their underwear. Rap music is the genre of the voice: one voice, one mic. The genre where one voice can literally build a nation. The thought that rap music is a lesser art form is one that my generation (you probably call us millennials, I call us Humanity’s Last Hope) will permanently abolish.

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‘SLEEP CYCLE’ Segments from the Art-Experience at CalArts
ART SHOWS / LOS ANGELES EVENTS

‘SLEEP CYCLE’ Segments from the Art-Experience at CalArts

WRITTEN BY ARTIST LUKA FISHER

The audience laughed at Tristene Roman’s comical nihilistic cut up poems and cried more than once. First, with Daniel Crook’s harrowing songs about being queer in small town america and then with Sarah Gail Armstrong’s accounts of the casual racism and systematic oppression that she and other black women are forced to deal with on a daily basis. The audience then danced to electronic death metal and covered each other in paint after performance artist Kayla Tange arrived.

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‘FIGHT IN HEELS’ Hear The Call…SNAAATCH!
FILM REVIEWS

‘FIGHT IN HEELS’ Hear The Call…SNAAATCH!

BY DEMITRI ADDERLEY

The central and compelling theme of FIGHT IN HEELS is the reawakening of the warrior spirit in womankind. So much of modern femininity is wrapped up in primping and accessorizing, makeup tutorials, and sex tips from magazines. Women are encouraged to be docile and soft, even to their own detriment. This film eviscerates that pathos; “You can’t fight in high heels…SNAAAAATCH.”

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“Miscasting, Propaganda, and Psychologically Twisted Violence: A Look at Disturbing Films”
FILM REVIEWS

“Miscasting, Propaganda, and Psychologically Twisted Violence: A Look at Disturbing Films”

BY STEVEN GRAY

My parents didn’t own a television until I was twelve and they limited our viewing time. My mother would say: “You should learn how to entertain yourself.” I didn’t have that many channels but I also didn’t have commercials so it wasn’t bad advice; however, it left me vulnerable whenever I was exposed to someone else’s television. I wasn’t used to how coldblooded it was. I was haunted for months by a TV show I saw at my grandmother’s house: two young men were confronted by a street gang in the 1950s; one ran away, but his friend was beaten to death. When you’re five or six years old that is hard to process.

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Mortal Trash
BOOK REVIEWS

Mortal Trash

REVIEWED BY AMANDA HILDEBRAND

Mortal Trash is a collection of handfuls: odes to old friends and family members, instructional poems about what poetry isn’t, simple pleads for answers. There’s a eulogy at the end, as if we’ve just died. We all follow Addonizio to heaven: “I saw God/ in a cumulus cloud./ Angels gathered on my library card.” And the big-kid concept of death is now so simple: a face in the clouds, a small square of plastic in your pocket.

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