Ataraxia

Vol. 2 • Feb/201 4

selected literature with illustrations

So

by Franklin K.R. Cline

So: winter, no further summer echo,

barely sun. So: inside, lost remotes, house

slippers, sweatpants. So: fake warmth, thickness. So:

false comfort, where’s the sky, where did my mouth

go oh here under the scarf, steamy drinks,

burnt l ips. So: irascible, carols down

the block, l ittle red and green lights make blinks

at our cold and tired eyes. So: around

the house we get quieter, and the meat

we started to cook gets forgotten, burnt.

So: smoke. So: fire. So: we could not eat,

that was all we had. So: hunger, we learnt

nothing. So: soon spring’s green splash across our

lawn, springing up from the snow. So now dour.

i hate everything except the things that i love

/ i love everything except the things that i hate

by alex wennerberg

call your friends i am alive, i am on instagram, my

head is a soft head,

when i close my eyes you are semen-colored,

in psychology we read about classical

conditioning tik tak we

read about classical conditioning,

in spite of myself you are beautiful ,

i chew my nails you are offl ine because you do

not exist you

are beautiful because i do not know beautiful

things, how

do these systems work you are beautiful , no,

i am in a six room apartment if you count

bathrooms, my desk has six quarters on it (new

mexico, texas, ohio, 3x eagle), my hands have,

no, it is three a.m. there are six people on

facebook, one two three one two three four five

six one two three one two three four five six you

are not onl ine on facebook you are beautiful

i do not know what to say, my fingernails are the

republican party, no,

my eyes strike a tiny puddle, the snow is melted,

i see in it a small tree, you are a small tree you

are beautiful the tree has no leaves it is winter

you are above my head an airplane, you are a

steak knife cutting the snow-melting si lent sky,

you are something i forgot, my head is a soft

kitten

i draw you on a post it note, the post it note is

blank, i think it is good

180.

by Grace Thorton

Noise, noise, noising the world fi l ls it with hum,

drowns out the not-si lence of static.

A noiseless brain is not at rest. I t is sending satel l ite

signals into space, saying

“Oh gawd. Halp.”

Help me dissolve this, this, into a murmurous growl low

enough to rumble animals.

Kick in their instincts so refined they can almost smell

with their joints.

Help me take fl ight, and for those without the gift of

birdness, help them fight.

There was once a call I could not hear. Then the tides

came and the rains fel l and

Touch was the sound. Water touched my toes. Wind

clutched my hair. I do not speak. I pet.

Calves nuzzle my ass looking for milk.

Ass, udders, tits, stomach, softnesses that might keep

my feet tucked up against someone

else’s at night.

Remember, how warm the womb was?

How fucking Emily was cozy as crawling back in it?

Pleading her cl it with the tip of a nose for the feel of the hair,

not the scent of her snatch,

I was subdued. A mouthful of si lence. A body rhythmic.

217

by Harrison Parks

All we want are stories.

I t's al l we've ever wanted.

I t doesn't matter where the hero goes,

As long as we are there,

To recognize a little bit of

You in I and I in you --

To reverberate, to harmonize, to reach an equil ibrium. . .

And die, knowing that when our oscil lations met --

They soared in step.

UNTITLED

by Low Man

Destruction is temporary

but,

how big?

Pull it apart

take it on a tour

UPDATE TIME

Tourism arises from popularity

perhaps,

it is a double edged sword

perhaps

it has no edge

Silence

offers to teach you

to think without words.

Pass it around

keep it under control.

Consider it beautiful .

Live among the many

dedicated to a lie

Stronger and bolder

in a bright pink folder

Labled: 201 3

Some say

worth the price of admission:

Some say

excessive:

Some say

Underdeveloped:

but,

none the less,

it sets you on the edge of your seat

it makes your teeth

sharper.

40 Hours

by Chris Drew

is destiny to wake up at same time

every week day

and eat lunch at same time too

and never have that empty afternoon feeling

of the 3 o'clock beautiful sun

and so is weary woe me

and so but no more rol l ing in noon bed

either ki l l ing blow

shown own little guts over it

and no listless sitting on porch

or finding empty croquette yard

or riding bikes

and so is weary me pent

Ataraxia is a monthly zine organized, edited,

and printed by rasasvada. We publish various

projects online and in limited paper copies.

Find more poems, stories, articles, art

and info about submitting your own work

at rasasvada.net.

thanks for reading,

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