Volume Four, Issue 3


Under the Influence of Confluence

Imbalance of grace,
overabundance of faces,
original sin in me and mine.

The merging of many,
a pity our minds couldn’t think the way we said they did.

Blindness gives way to find
another kind of darkness harnessed in my tongue.

Old Friends,
run with me from these boiling trees, the breezes that pass by
to warn of the coming storms.

Run with me
from the steaming dirt, the maggots who burrow deep
in hopes they will not cook.

Run with me
from that unchanging cloud where we could never hope to touch
something bluer than the roses in my teeth.

Run with me
from the retreating sky beneath the inverted streets
and swiftly deepening bed
of shedding bits we’ve been sleeping in.

Run with me
until we’ve lost all sense of the infection
I’ve been breeding in my mind,
a place that does not exist in this,
but may one day in that
and is, simply put,
the things we shouldn’t be for the sake
of you and me remaining creatures who can walk.

Run with me
in opposite directions
before we change our minds.

Teething a Tintype

I’ve found my kneecaps in a bed of orchids
that have wound their roots around
my first lost tooth.

I make my knees into a locket that I place under my tongue.

There’s the rustling of a photo growing inside,
it will be a picture of someone who is too comfortable
with being lost.

I remember roots being ripped up prematurely
and a crisp dollar underneath my pillow.

I get as close as I can
to putting my tooth back in my head,
and lay myself in the mouth of an orchid.

On 5 PM

I dreamt the brontosauruses were aluminum
and that you, brother, had a copper tongue.

did you grow up without me?

I dreamt the world was not made to die
and that water was meant to be chewed.

The boardwalks scurry,
blur into the concept of sanctity,
and I am standing with a picket sign
protesting the wetness of my teeth.

Grey is the color of jumping,
I remember what suspension meant
before we turned sixteen
but nothing I’ve said since
is worth the allowance of mercy.

The boardwalks equalize our steps
as I wish you had never grown taller than me,
and the dinosaurs that dot the skyline
become the only thing I will ever remember of today.

Cyan: "I am an Asian-American writer and actor from the Seattle area. I don’t have any fun writing credits to cite for myself, but this one time my fourth grade teacher was really impressed with my poem about beets. Since then, I have been writing poetry primarily exploring uncertainty. Much of my work draws from surrealism and dada, and seeks to recreate and explore the feelings of discomfort in our personal identities that I believe is universal. You can find me on Instagram @cyanagram.”

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