The waves wash in, warm and salty,
leaving your eyebrows white and
the edge of your cheekbone. Your ear
aches. You are lonely. On the
underside of a satin leaf, hot
with shade, a scorpion sleeps. And
one Sunday I will be shot brushing
my teeth. I am a native of this island.
—Frank O’Hara, from “Pearl Harbor”
We found a home for our second zine machine! You can visit it at Transcend Coffee on 109 street and 87th avenue. All art is 1.50$ and we are still accepting submissions for this!
Inventory #548: RINE #1
REGARDING SEVEN AS A GUIDE
I looked you in the eye and demanded accumulation, so the hours melted into a pool and the water flowed over the dam and we made our liquid lives up as we went. You asked for a head count and I said Seven. Seven heads. But I meant chances, I meant if we were cats we could keep living, if not then the waves would overwhelm us. We had our chance. It’s Sunday now.