A friend writes:

Dear Weaver of Dreamz–

I have three different recurring dreams, and I wonder if they are connected somehow.

In one, I am in Paris. I have always loved that city, have lived there before, visited it numerous times since I first went there as a child. It is very much a second home to me. However, over the last ten years or so, after several terrifying experiences with storms and turbulence, I’ve become much more nervous about flying, particularly for more than a few hours at a time. So the idea of being on a plane for ten hours from the west coast to Europe seems like a daunting prospect, and is something I have not done since 2008. In the dream, I am always already in Paris, and surprised to find myself there. I never actually dream about the flight itself, but once in Paris I always seem to recall that the flight was not really a big deal, though it still gives me shivers of anxiety thinking about it.

The second is a reconciliation dream. I am with someone, a friend or an ex that I have not seen in a long while, with whom there has been some tension or falling out, and we end up laughing or kissing or collaborating, and becoming closer than we ever were before. Like most dreams that involve unexpected intimacy, I wake up with a genuine feeling of connection to that person, and whatever was between us has been healed. Some of these dreams repeat multiple times with the same person. Others are one and done. Continue reading

The Inventory – A Casual Gathering of Dolphins


We love Queer Southeast Asia.

We love this collaboration between Sumayya Alsenan & Ana Božičević.

We love this story by Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi.

We love these poems by Michelle Gil-Montero.

We love this poem by Emily Kendal Frey.

We love these poems by Dennis James Sweeney.

We love this interview with Dennis Cooper.

We love these poems by Marwa Helal.

We love this poem by Andrew James Weatherhead.

We love these poems by Donald Dunbar.

We love you!


Three Poems – Willy Palomo


Prayer from a hole in the wall

I still feel your sweet fist inside me,
the pop of plaster and tense tremble
of knuckles that broke me into existence.

My sisters stare star-like out of bedroom walls,
brothers mumbling illegible braille.
We are eyes that never blink or sleep,

mouths that never cry or speak. Jaws unhinged
and open. Our teeth flake and shudder
when we breathe. We know you are always

listening: as we suck mouthfuls of cold air,
as we blow pipes in the night with hymnals
of rust and brass. This is the way we worship

the fists that birthed us, how we attempt to forget
the miracle of our conceptions.
I cannot imagine what fury roused you

to constellate your living room
like a burnt out night sky, what wound
sparked your spirit into a fit,

but I know when hands hold onto nothingness
tight enough, they inevitably curl
into fists, hurl their desire

on any kissable surface.
Your longing becomes a weapon
you cannot contain.

If my birth was an act of violence,
I will always be a hole in the wall,
a reminder of hands that chose to close and twist.
Continue reading

For Cubs Fans Who Encourage Me to Root for The Cubs in the Playoffs


Hey Guys!calvin-disc-1-cubs_01

My my my, you have been working over time trying to convince me to root for your Cubbies. It’s cool that you’re excited. The Cubs haven’t given you much to be excited about and I get it. You just don’t know how to handle all of this pure joy. While I appreciate the invite allow me to explain why I am turning down your offer.

Few things first: I am a White Sox fan. I also recognize that the Cubs are a better team than the White Sox both on and off the field. Theo Epstein is a genius that should quit baseball and solve world hunger through the use of sabermetrics. I don’t know how that would work but I’m sure he could do it. The Cubs roster is filled with young, talented, and gritty players that are fun to watch. Joe Maddon is like your neighbor’s cool uncle that comes through town in his hippy van every summer with a different girlfriend and let’s you smoke weed with him while he talks about how Burning Man used to awesome before it went commercial. They are an enviable team set up for long-term success.

That being said, Fuck The Cubs. Why? Glad you asked.

1) I Don’t Care About Your Dead Grandpa.

I’ve heard, “C’mon Cubbies! Let’s do it for Grandpa! I know he’s watching from heaven” or a variation of that quote on Facebook, on sports radio, in person, etc a thousand times. The Cubs are not winning it all for your grandpa. Javier Baez gives no shits about your grandpa. Anthony Rizzo gives no shits about your grandpa. Cubs fans act as if the Cubs winning the World Series will unleash a zombie horde of their dead relatives to help them celebrate the title. I understand the connection between family and sports. I have a lot of great memories of going to games with my grandparents. I also have a lot of great memories of my grandparents that don’t involve sports at all. If the only connection you had with your grandpa was baseball, he was probably a shitty grandpa and he deserves nothing. Continue reading




Someone dreamt their eyes were pooling with blood. I had a dream I found a bottle of cologne with one of my friend’s name on the label, under which was printed Architect and Philosopher. A friend of mine is making a maps to the landscapes in her dreams. Last night I dreamt about a party with too many staircases. This was after the destruction of Chicago, a new canyon dredged to fill with ruins.

As I write this there is a square glass filled with writing implements on my desk, situated eight inches diagonally from my right hand. This glass was a Christmas gift given by a boss when I worked in an office four floors above where I now sit. This glass was a way of saying I know I’m supposed to buy you a gift, but fuck you. Sometimes waking from a dream I feel the world is telling me the same thing.

Inside the glass there’s twenty or so pens and pencils and markers that came from other dreams: a Micron 08 I once sketched my son’s face with, a Staples Hype highlighter that I colored in the squares representing my vacation weeks with, a BP Zebra F-301 mechanical pencil that I used to complete problem sets for Technical Mathematics 215, a black ballpoint pen with my deceased grandfather’s name emblazoned on it that I rescued from his 1990 Lincoln Town Car after the transmission went and I almost drove it into my house then decided wasn’t worth the cost of repair.

These are all dreams. None of them exist, but I can vividly recall them. Memories are the superstition we build our lives on. We all know America was never great. If you don’t then why the fuck are you reading this? None of your memories are more valid than that great lie.

There’s a lot of superstition surrounding dreams as well: you can’t die in a dream, there’s a right way to interpret them, that we can understand.

This isn’t an attempt to trick you. Surety is.

We’ve all had dreams we didn’t want to wake from. Many of us have had dreams we return to. A smaller group of us have learned to navigate those dreams, have become conscious of the dreaming within the dream. Spiritual teachers tell us this is a way of training for becoming conscious of the dreaming within this dream. There are many volumes dedicated accounts of those who’ve done this, been able to accomplish fantastic feats because they’ve fully integrated this awakening. Last night my daughter asked me what I would do if I could do anything. Anything, I replied.

The grief of death is the refusal to accept the beauty of the dead cat’s smile. The grief of death is the lie of memory, and your attachment to it.

How much of who you are is a lie? How much of who you are today is the remembrance of yourself congealing in the bathroom mirror? How hard is it to forget all the times you’ve been hurt? When was the last time you forgot who you were?

Be someone else tomorrow. Be conscious of the remembering. Interdict possibility before the approach of memory. Write yourself a note so you don’t have to remember this.

Two Poems – James Dulin

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Still Life #89







Last night I dreamt I opened my fanny pack to find a note someone had slipped me the night before. It was written on the back of a friend’s utility bill. The note contained a list of everything I had done wrong the night before. It said that I had monopolized the evening’s conversation, and that I had read poetry for too long, boring everyone with my mediocrity. The note also said I will never be taken seriously because I published my own chapbook, and serious poets don’t do this.

This morning my wife told me I was screaming in my sleep, thrashing about through the night.

I don’t believe the accusations set forth in my dream note. But I don’t think this dream was operating on the level of belief, rather it was detailing a set of aliefs. An alief is a primitive, unconscious belief-like attitude, particularly one that is in tension with our explicit beliefs. So while I believe self-publishing in no way speaks to the value of the work being published, that many of my favorite poets have self-published, that self- publishing has a stigma unfairly attached to it, that I think fuck anyone who says otherwise, I  hold the alief that my work is not as good because I’ve self-published it.

How do I change my aliefs? I wonder if cognitive behavioral therapy would work. Maybe just examining and talking about them would help.

Many people have told me I’m too quiet. I’m always self-conscious about how much I speak; sometimes thinking that whoever speaks the loudest has the least to say. I never want to be a blowhard. Know that if you meet me and I seem quiet, it’s because I’m more interested in what you have to say than I am in speaking.

The strange heat of the body excites upon hearing its name.

Often I’m too deep inside myself to talk. Right now I’m wondering how aliefs relate to dreams and writing. I don’t believe that waking and dreaming are diametrically opposed. This is to say waking can also be dreaming. And although I don’t believe this realm is of a higher ordered significance in comparison to the dream, I function under the alief that it is. How do I change that? My friend Avery suggested to me that people hold dream meet-ups as a way to establish a shared landscape, which could then be maintained continuously by shifts of dreamers.

My wife says I could use to break my head open more. This is how I know she loves me.

I wonder what it was like to be the first sentient being, waiting for
others to join them here. I think about this when I’m writing a poem, and then reading it for people. Who’s willing to join me in these bubbles of consciousness? I also try not to think about this too much when writing, because I want the bubble to stay a bubble. I feel like the more signposts I put in a poem, the less it’s a poem, the less it’s another place.

My daughter likes tricks. I pull my thumb apart. I roll a sheet of paper into a tube and tell her to look through it with one eye. Then I move her hand, palm facing her, next to the tube. There’s a hole in her hand.

I wonder what you came here looking for. Both into this world and where you are right now, reading these words. Do you want to learn something new? Do you want to read something that makes you think Yes! I too have felt these things. Or do you want to come into my bubble? How much disbelief can you meet with suspension? How strong are your aliefs?

Tonight I will dream the consciousness of water for you

An epoch long slither

Digging new canyons through the mesa

Remember me there

In heather light

I met a group of people who organized DMT meet-ups. Each of us would take DMT at the same time once a week and try to find each other in the DMT place. The best time of day to smoke DMT is the lavender hour, with shades half drawn. I’d exhale and watch everything dissolve into the smoke. I try to live that way. To be that smoke adrift, a sail cut through time.

I’m trying to cut through alief.

I grew up near a waterfall. I remember an afternoon in the grass of a hill looking down on it. My mother taught me how to whistle on a leaf. I’m still there, a permanent sunshine smiling upon us.

What have learned without learning? What are you willing to leave where you are?

Are you looking for a trick? You are a question asking itself in reverse. A hole through all of it.

In small pulls I am slowly unknowing myself. I will prove to you that nothing is always an answer to someone’s question.

The Inventory – Love=Loss of Peripheral Vision


We love this essay by Choir member Jackie Kirkpatrick.

We love silver horses.

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We love this poem by Choir member Anthony Robinson.

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We love these poems by Sarah Bridgins.

We love Chance Castro’s new chapbook.

We love these poems by Bud Smith.

Grindr Troll #13


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