Three Doodles

by Zander Sattee 

Cool Duck

cool duck 1

Ravioli Man

ravioli man 1

Huh Guy
 huh   guy

Find more great art from Zander on his Instagram

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Years in a Seahorse

by Zachary Scott Hamilton


My mind is still a balloon full of helium. I am wandering the shale cliffs, I store a few balloons, and a dream, like a good idea, in your home. I found a glass of water in the forest vines, and filled my wandering legs without a doctor. When I arrive at your residence, seven seconds pass. Topics like healing with garlic, the state of the union, homelessness in the inner city make up an hour for me, and when abandoned, a few weeks. I figure if I sit down with you, and bring glyphs into your eyes, and the spinning summer waterfall bathing--I've forgotten about it--and the rest of Berlin unfolds with us, please notify the author Gertrude Stein right as six seconds (you seem pretty sure) are going through equations of creating that seven seconds stuffed in a box with a key.


Earthworms burrow three holes into 4465 east Remington place. China plates, cabinet flower print, vine dreamt, and vertical ladders tied at the top to the painted sun, then the education of light. Healing a freeze-frame with that black hat floating underwater, upside down in a profile, split in screens, two each side of a mule passing Arc St. digging glass with their new album, spectacles like spiders, walls, and a queens hand, gloved-handkerchief umbrellas flying over the ocean. One, spinning nowhere, one in the rainbow. Middletown, turning a record beneath the needle claw, his wife closes herself in eyelashes.

Leprechauns climb out of the pottery all around the floating room. Middletown is a strange place, each bit of burning aroma wanders like tourists to the sea, the passage is in ocher locks of lichen, like arms. For a thousand breakfasts, in a claw foot tub, before moon and flame, bathing in leaves on the webs of sleep near the eaves of a French impersonator, Godfrey, with rockets in her dreams, large green eyes, and delicate hands, flirts with a tv remote. Her finger nails glitter in the static, dreams switch channels, static as she sleeps.

Closely trimmed in a white dance of basil lakes, and parasols that leak out speakers, the boats turn green. The algae, laughing, goat for halloween! Waking (A. in glove), (A. in goat) eating cakes. Godfrey Samples small locks of her keyboard with knife-point algebra. The road lets in floating military backpacks, to wire with solder, and children and Leaf the childrens’ world, just left heart beat, just playback oxygen, Oxen wanderlust.

( 3 )  EATING

Face the symmetrical furniture, the chandeliers, the jacket, the green, neon clock. The angel Auriel makes sure of the favorite pair of color swatch eyes, the best way to the nose, wakes eating cakes in an identical Wednesday, dancing on the slides with a hundred years in a letter to the post office, or over a week, so galactic.

I am curious, humane, sheltered in scarves. I have grown a lot of wings from maple, and friends in New York. I even found a place for the past, and I will have a healthy fear of you who jangle your keys next to the passage in twilight. I join handmade letters from cardboard, kiss under heavens, float to shore, as Zachary.


At the felt sleeve of the cosmos, the Catalina stairways practice Eucla cod, the Elvers are fed atoms, and suspended in animations so the Danio can gorge on tv commercials.

There are nine awkward turns to go, thanks to the iceberg crystalline. Her first frozen mammoths appear in the story bridge, and reflecting ponds, in the snow suits, and warm tongues.

( 5 )  BLUE INK

Swerve into a hat, into a white whale, a bird, throwing glitter, glowing retina tin can, sewing machine spit, conditioner lathered foam noises. Lurching on a wire, a maple figure, is woven black threads, a new nightmare stitch under the winding of doors, sculpted all hair for songs, and gold furniture, rewind --

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Four Mixed-Media Pieces

by Chuck Clenney


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Typewriter Art

by Michael Prihoda

horse to the left

Scan 17


Scan 16

just because you wore a hat doesn't mean it's your birthday

Scan 24 1

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Two Poems

by John Lowther

from Correspondences


I can't resist a magnanimous offer like that.
It ain't easy, but you have to work with the material.
It's really really horrible.
The very fact that we disagree brings warmth to my heart.
My philosophy professor recommended that I learn about sports so that I would
     have something to talk about with normal people.
What this taxonomy means, I don't know.
All that is left to do is bury my head under my knee and wait for the end.
Reading rosicrucial shit.
I don't know why you would come to that opinion.
Anyhow –I’m out of it– really dumbed down by the desert.
If it was intended only as verbatim reportage then in a sense it's even funnier.
The name comes out of thin air, but seems to fit.
A belt on the car is screeching like the proverbial banshee.
Your rude trimming is in fact terrific.


Asking about summer stock and choice cuts of botany.
It all started after I decided it was time for a return to the body.
Where have all the flowers gone?
That's where I think discussions actually operate.
It adds invisible exclamation points.
I have done nothing but write and translate, and when I finish what I have to do
     for the day, the last thing I feel like doing is writing or translating.
Sense of what, or why, is a different issue.
I go at it entirely in the dark.
Whitefish and kipper snacks with too much treble on off-balanced headphones.
And my friend and I looked at each other and went pale.
Please do.
Enough, this is not really pertinent, but it's an interesting periphery.
Nor am I trying to win.
I can sort of see your comment about that taking some of the fun out of it.

Read more from John here

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