” As a child, I wanted to either be pope, but a military pope, or an actor. The pleasure I derived from these two hallucinations.”

Pictures © Amy King & Maxime Ballesteros

She didn’t mean what she said. I’m fairly certain of that. Or, if she did mean what she said, she probably didn’t mean for what she said to come out the way that she said it. Perhaps she didn’t mean for it to come out at all. I remember she turned her head slightly to the left afterward (I was on her right), a gesture I interpreted at the time as regret, though it is possible, in hindsight, that she turned her head to the left to clear her view (she has very long hair, this woman) and the thought of regret never even entered her mind. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. I have not known her long. She is not one of my oldest friends. She is not, technically, my friend at all. She is the wife of a friend. This is the fact I find most irritating. I am often irritated when forced to make small talk with women who are married to friends of mine. I do not like small talk and am not good at making it. I was already annoyed at being left alone with her. This was before she made the remark in question. Perhaps if I had not been so annoyed I would not have been listening quite as carefully to what she was saying and would not now be hearing her words over and over again in my head as though they were an oral grocery list or set of daily affirmations. I don’t want to think that she meant what she said. What she said was very unkind. If she meant the unkind thing that she said it stands to reason she is an unkind person and if she is an unkind person what sort of person then is my friend, her husband? I have always believed my friend to be a kind man. Perhaps he too is unkind but is better at disguising his unkindness. I cannot remember a time when my friend acted in an unkind manner or made an unkind remark but maybe this is because I am never annoyed at being left alone with him and therefore pay little attention to the things he does and says. It is possible he has made many unkind comments in my presence over the years. He has very unusual eyes, my friend, the color of molasses, and I often find myself staring into them as though held in place by a visual stickiness. His wife’s eyes are not unique. They are blue or green or some combination of the two. They are a color you would expect.

Text © Elizabeth Ellen
Photography © Eiko Hosoe

Wait,
Whose
Woods
Are
These?
Mr.
Frost,
Please.

Haven’t
You
Heard
Of
Broken
Treaties?

Of
Course,
You
Still
Have
Promises
To
Keep.

Your
Pastoral
Horse
Shit
Is
Deep.

Poem by Sherman Alexie.
Photographs by Herbert List.

Animal sacrifice has nothing to do with the Holocaust. The Holocaust was not a sacrifice. It is disgusting and obscene to say that the Holocaust was a sacrifice. A sacrifice is a devotional thing. The golden calf, the red heifer, Ferdinand the Bull, the sacred cow, these things are important. What meat is supposed to stand for, ipso facto, is important. Does meat ever just stand for itself? Is a cigar ever a cigar?

I do not eat meat.

The only people who talk about sacrifice are assholes. The government talks about sacrifice, and about the ultimate sacrifice. Sacrifice has to have PURPOSE. Sacrifice has sacred utility. The Holocaust had no purpose. Dying for a cause can have purpose. But most of the time when the state speaks of sacrifice the state means THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME EAT YOU.

Text by Ariana Reines
Images by Anders Petersen

The institution of metaphor making should take responsibility for punishing makers of metaphor-less metaphors. And it should be the job of the metaphor maker’s union to propose and carry out laws against the making of metaphor-less metaphors. These makers of metaphor-less metaphors are criminals, we say, in the silence of our minds. But in their baseness these makers of metaphor-less metaphors justify their actions by saying that we want their metaphors, which are not actually metaphors. Of course, we do want their metaphor-less metaphors. But just because we want their metaphor-less metaphors does not mean that we actually want their metaphor-less metaphors. On the contrary, we want metaphors. And these makers of metaphor-less metaphors think that because we want and even enjoy their metaphor-less metaphors that this must mean that we actually want their metaphor-less metaphors. The public wants our metaphor-less metaphors, they say, all the while laughing at how they have fooled us into thinking that we actually want their metaphor-less metaphors. Of course, we do not want their metaphor-less metaphors, but when they speak of cake, which is not actually cake, they pronounce the words so clearly: Have a slice of cake, say these corrupt and fraudulent bakers. Have a slice of this moist and fresh, delicious butter-cream cake. How seduced we are by the clear sound of their words: Moist and fresh, delicious, butter-cream cake. Moist and fresh, delicious butter-cream cake. We try to resist the moistness and freshness of their delicious butter cream cakes, but when they pull out their shiny knives, and slice into their moist and fresh, delicious butter cream cakes, we become slaves to the cakelessness of their cakes. How delicious, we say, as we bite into their moist and fresh, delicious butter cream cakes. How delicious these butter cream cakes. We say these words so clearly, and as we savor the moistness and freshness of their delicious butter cream cakes, we believe in what we say. But the moment we leave the bakery we cannot help but chastise ourselves for enjoying their moist and fresh, delicious butter-cream cakes. These cake-less cakes, we scream, these gastronomic rejects. These cake-less cakes, we scream, these gastronomic rejects.

text by Daniel Borzutzky.
image found.

Today the sky is a white shroud and we are still alive. We drive through empty fields. We drive through stripped forests. We drive in the rain in the dark and it is not in vain. There was a time she stopped leaving the house and shut all the doors. There. At the end of the path there is a paint horse against the drenched background. Pourrait-elle vivre sans lui? We circle him stroke his neck rub the soft spot under the mane between the ears. There was a time I did not understand. We’re falling in love with a horse. There was a time she shaved her head like an Egyptian shaved her eyebrows in mourning. My daughter leads him to the ring and I remember. There was a time she carved a horse’s name on her ankle and I did not scream.

text by Brigitte Byrd
image © Fortean Picture Library – Pascal Pinon alias “L’homme à deux têtes”

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.