users online ___ Your Typical Spiel
Your Typical Spiel
page from my new zine. also don’t tell me what 2 do

page from my new zine. also don’t tell me what 2 do


you guys, my wonderful friend jessr puts together this magazine & she asked me to help read submissions & i am so so excited about doing that, so please send her some! 

:’) cassandra is an awesome poet. i’m so excited for her help. send us things to read, please!


you guys, my wonderful friend jessr puts together this magazine & she asked me to help read submissions & i am so so excited about doing that, so please send her some! 

:’) cassandra is an awesome poet. i’m so excited for her help. send us things to read, please!

(Source: pizza-pi)

saturn itself sprouted legs and a gender, landed, double knotted his nikes
straightened his rings and held my hand to the soft spot of himself,
that place where his skin bruised the shape of new jersey during that diorama life when we were all fruits swinging like balls of yarn
trying to unbecome

the earth was a potato with a nickel lodged into its side, then -
i remember that much, and saturn was a peach - i was a something with wings feeding on the nectar, trying to get the pit where
cyanide is stored. his rings weren’t yet crystallized around the gravity of himself
his rings were still trying to be a harp, then.
i guess i found something in the way his flesh crooned itself tender from the inside out, i guess i never forgot the annihilation of his subtle poison - i guess i tucked it into my skin condition, in the way my biology is always trying always failing to replicate the song, to bring saturn closer
i guess he’s never been mine, but still Saturn comes to me

sprouts cartoon eyeballs, an appreciation for hydrangeas, he grabs my other hand, pulls me down oxford street, to the nearest bush, he says


saturn plucks the flower, hands it to me, tells me to keep it safe
i shove it in my nose. i tell him, that’s where i store my love
the rest is somewhere in the ocean



my hand still pressed to his soft spot and now saturn hugging himself to the tune of me, wanting to hold one flower to the bruise of himself but still, always wanting all of the flowers, every flower, he Loves Me Loves Me Not He Loves Me, But he doesn’t because saturn lives in the sky but stores his pit in the mouth of a sea elephant, he drowns his love and calls this whale song


saturn steps closer, trips over his shoelaces, he falls to the earth.
i sense tectonics groaning in the distance. a car alarm goes off.
i imagine half of california falling into the ocean.



a literary magazine about heritage, culture, community, hometown, neighborhood, environment – anything or place from the outside that has found its way in.

Maps For Teeth is literary magazine, so yeah, that means poetry, prose, visual art, etc. but we want to stress that we want everything that falls under that umbrella. Literally everything. It’s a huge umbrella. So give us the polished, the raw, the stuff you produce that makes you scratch your head when you try to categorize it. Do you have a review? A reaction to a piece of art? Do you have comics? Doodles? Collages? Journal entries? Interviews? Send it. All of it. 

DEADLINE: September 18th //

 more info // follow us on Facebook


Download a digital copy for free, or order a hardcopy for $12. This thing is full of frickin beautiful/awesome/honest work, please check it out. And reading period for the next issue is already happening. Send your art to

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  • always the smell just before coffee
  • never the coffee just the never
  • and then i was a girl
  • and then i was a person
  • and then i was a blur
  • they tell me i create birds
  • i listen to their bird praise
  • i eat all of the birds
  • always the bird, never its song
  • never its bird song for me
  • never never never never almost. never
  • this hurts - whatever. look, birds.
  • “how much paper do we have?”
  • “well thank you very much, thanks”
  • i keep personifying fruits, and why
  • i keep replaying in the brainhole
  • i keep replaying elevator elbows, replaying
  • bOP bop. no stop bop boP
  • no more bop bop just stop
  • did you untangle your bowtie’s tongue?
  • did you untangle your hum hum
  • hum hum hum hum hum hum
  • fucking shit. fuck. and like, bicycles.
  • muffins are so important, yes yes.
  • i just want to walk. i
  • just want to, wanted to walk
  • and a ghost plays your tastebuds
  • like a bongo. like a bongos
  • but like you will be mean
  • but like tomorrow i’ll wake up
  • no no not wake up. walk

new chapbook of poems about being first-gen lebanese-american and how lots of firsts interact with family history. also some love stuff also some moon stuff also some of my doodles. printed copies here.

thanks 4 readin, friends :~)

there are little people with trumpets for hands punching the back of my eyeballs every time i cross the street. jido is sick and someone isn’t eating and i found out that nothing lives inside the belly of an elephant except for the love it swallows when the love doesn’t want to swallow it back

but it makes their hair grow in fuzzies. in little tufts up top top de bip bop biddly sneep snop, hEY hey the brain is a stop sign now. it’s nickles against cardboard when i’m sad. it’s reds reds reds sea glass and the moon. I’m trying to make art but all the art is about how much this hurts. it hurts but hey whatever, you ever seen a ghost? you ever dreamed about soda can people? they live in the dregs of civil war, in the aftermath of the burp in the crack of its ankle. in the trail of history’s nails against its own wrists. trenches for dead skin and alternate timelines, i think.

i don’t know jack but jack knew my mom. he died at 18, swallowed by love, but not before the gunfire. megafauna of the chest: nickels shooting out of the body. bloodcells arranging into elephant before becoming confetti against olive trees. scarlet pillbugs. all tusk through a red t-shirt. he wears a red t-shirt and hugs her as she chops parsley and she doesn’t know he’s there and he doesn’t know i know that he could’ve been my father but i already have a father and anyway i had a dream about fevers once.

and buttons the size of trees, futures peeking through the threadholes. eyes opening like mouths. and someone still isn’t eating, nothing lives inside her belly and jido asked me about the condition attached to the frontal lobe when we let it juggle our dreams.

he asked me what i saw in mine — i didn’t tell him i saw him there as kind of a child but not quite a child. he looked more like a ghazal with fig trees for arms and himself as a child swinging from the branches. but i didn’t tell him that

i just told him about the moon full of bees, how it bounces against the earth like your eye against first love’s eye, i told him how outerspace fraternizes with our elbows while we sleep and he told me his brain is an upside down chair when he has a fever

he has a fever. his skin is a red tshirt, soaked

the people with the trumpets play taps against the back of my eyes at every crosswalk until and i’m fine i’m okay i’m the worst i’m here. i’ve swallowed what makes the hairs grow. it’s a tongue where my heart should be but the tastebuds are full of the memory of something sweet. the dark spice of reds reds reds and sea glass. brass megafauna. a stubborn water key. blood the sound of sad ska music. all tusk like a streetlight through the heart, again and again

hey. hey are you listening to me? listen, i’ve read all the poems - double checked the reports with the window crack portal to the gods - here’s the real romance between the sun and the moon: the moon is an earth apple, naked; A potato, peeled. Artemis got bored with waiting for Apolla. left a mess. And Apolla, she got mad that the skins littered her skies closed every time she went for a jog. the turn of the earth is just a few sweeps of the dustpan held steady by an angry god baking the moon scarlet every morning with her rage — this is the real romance of night and day.

This is the real romance of lining up the fate lines on our palms: it might never be enough. to wait, to keep waiting. to accept the nightfall, that the cosmos are just starches left out too long. it might hurt so much i could bake it into my cavities. i could name the ache after this. i could devour it and it would still be a part of me.

i wonder who will litter my nights with the skin of something i loved before i loved them.

Jess, what do I do if I feel I have lost the love of my life forever, and can't go on without them?

i am super not the authority on this question but losing people is hard and i totally feel that, dude. but i think you just have to keep going literally one day at a time and live in the immediate moments that things feel okay like if you’re eating a piece of chocolate or if you’re on the green line and your favorite song comes on shuffle and you’re not running late and your limbs decide to bop bop boodly beep bop sneep snop hEY and eventually those moments will stretch out and you won’t realize it until one day you’ve gone a whole frickin hour without thinking about this person and then soon it’ll be longer and then eventually they’ll be on your toes like old nail polish from last summer that lasts all year, like you’ll only think about them when you look down at your feet in the shower. they’ll be in your toes. so you should probably never shower again

and also think about all the love you have in yourself for this person and how you had all that love before they were a person in your life and how you lived so long not knowing them and you can do it again and there’s no way all the love sliming up the inside of your body is going to crust up because love is a mucus and mucus is always making more of itself and you’ve got so much of it that you’re going to sneeze on someone one day and that’ll be it, you’ll both be infected and disgusting and beautiful and happy and in love. you’re probably a frickin cool person and you can go on, you will. it’ll be super fuckin hard but make some art and absorb some art and take lots of walks and make lots of lists and talk to yourself in the mirror, that helps. maybe one day you can be best friends with this person and even if you know that probably isn’t the case, let yourself cling to that until you don’t need to anymore. lie to yourself until you’re not lying to yourself anymore. i wish i could hug you because like this isn’t the place i want to talk about this feeling but your timing is weird and i guess i needed to put this somewhere for myself too. i hug you, stranger. if we’re friends, let’s get a burrito 2gether

i appreciate what brueggars is trying to do but bagels were not meant for anything more than cream cheese and maybe an egg. maybe.

every time i try to spell brueggars i see dave egger’s name in there even though it’s spelled wrong.
when i think of dave eggers i think of that book he wrote that i haven’t read but still carried the title with me because i know if i read it i would absorb it in my body as long as i lived and i would have a weird lumpy skin tag in the shape of a book. it would be somewhere on my right side, between my hip and top rib bone. that’s the side i sleep on most, the reason my right leg always aches, i hope.

i wonder how i can write a heartbreaking work of staggering genius and i think to do that i would have to become all the heart and all the breaking and surrender to not ever knowing the space between ever again and i’m scared, i don’t want to do that and also i don’t want to be that and also maybe i can just be this bagel. a bagel doesn’t have to worry about taxes and saying the wrong thing and losing anything more than some sesames and also itself

the coffee here is terrible. i appreciate what they’re trying to do, the awake they’re trying to pronounce with thick burning aftertaste but the bitterness is messing with the way vintage nelly furtado and my big sweater want me to stay awake by the window. marisa was here before her class and we were talking about strangers with identical scars and the cosmic crash of the planets in my head when i’m sleeping. i met a son i had last night, he was breaking in the heart and i wasn’t allowed to hug him because he wasn’t really mine anymore and then i woke up still feeling like i let him down. who was that little blonde boy. and i’ve never been blonde but maybe once, i was. maybe once, i knew how to take care of more than myself.

there’s a jug in the shape of a fish over there and it would be great for holding scabs. i wonder if there’s a universe where scabs are used as currency. we’ll all be trading little pieces of ourselves for other little pieces of ourselves like we don’t already do that. we’ll all be flayed in the name of capitalism. i think we already are and anyone with a third eye already lives in the scabbed universe. i wonder if they can see into a place where we’ll trade ourselves in the name of the bubbles we fill each other with. i wonder how many three eyed people i’ve met aside from the one i know, i wonder how many of them know why i smile at my shoes on the train. i wonder how many of them can see right through me, know why the little blonde boy is sad. i want to know why he’s sad and i want to know what i did and i don’t want to do it again. i want this coffee to be better and i want this old song to flip into another old song and i want to stop smiling at my shoes because they don’t smile back and i feel like i am breaking in the heart

but of course i know i’m not. not yet

feels kind of gratuitous to post this, but i was nominated by my favorite professor to represent lesley university at this festival! i’ll be reading the poem that was published in the chapbook next to other college poets in the greater boston area. my poem is about my grandma and civil war and kneecaps and elephants and feelings.

feels kind of gratuitous to post this, but i was nominated by my favorite professor to represent lesley university at this festival! i’ll be reading the poem that was published in the chapbook next to other college poets in the greater boston area. my poem is about my grandma and civil war and kneecaps and elephants and feelings.


we’re at felipe’s and itchy asks me if i’ve written the poem about my lipstick on the burrito yet. i feel like the marked burrito is the poem itself and i almost don’t want to touch that but now i have. the real poem is in the way itchy remembers all of me, and memory is a kind of superpower. also a kind of love.

one time marshall took my glasses right off my face and cleaned them for me.
marisa said Aw That’s Love Right There and i agree and then marshall told me my glasses were gross. but that’s Love too. and it’s lots of things and strands of other things and stuff and moon rocks and reflections of trees on just-washed cars, but i’m still afraid to say it out loud when it becomes a rubberband ball around one lone name in my gut.

guac didn’t like to hug when we first met but now she hugs. we also say ‘i love you’ when we hang up on the phone. we still talk on the phone. i’m talking on the phone more often now. i get to say “love” to people a lot more now. this is kind of like practice but also like snapping the rubberbands to wake up what lives in the tangle of them, to get me used to the way it stirs my insides. when i get poetic with guac she tells me poetry hides what i need to Just Fucking Say Already
and she’s right
but then we hug with words and hang up

to test my maternal instinct i want to adopt a basil plant and raise it as my own and never ever pluck any of it for eats. i keep a bottle of dried basil by my bed so i already don’t trust myself but doesn’t something shift when you become a parent?

on the train yesterday, i read a short story about a dad who shook his baby to death on purpose.

my dad would never do that but he has kicked a family computer to death. otherwise only reached for his belt once but the same way you’d reach for the pull of a broken lawnmower. you could annihilate the overgrowth of grass, the spill of Loud and Too Much
if you had it in you to destroy. he never did. but he still spits, still shakes with something when he gets mad.

i’m afraid when i’m older i’ll finally see it for what it is in the half of me that’s his.

my phone changes “i love you” to I Live You and i think that’s closer to the womb than anything else we can say so even when my mom tells me that she kissed her phone because i was on the other end of it, i know i’ll never be half the mother she is even though half of my person is of her unscarred tissue and sunspots

she says “y’aburnee” which means I Love You So Much I Hope I Die First, I Hope You Bury Me and no one that didn’t grow up hearing it realizes that the etymology doesn’t originate in romance - it began as a rumble in the womb. Mothers are the ones that say that word to you more than anyone else in your lifetime. even if they’re not actually saying it out loud. and they mean it and I’m scared

i’ll be a horrible mother. i already am - i’ve left harold behind again. when i visit home, i watch him on the window by the sink. his bamboo looks greener, taller. less hollow. there are oceans inside the flutes of him, they sound along with my mother’s humming as she washes the filo from her hands. there are so many recipes to learn from her. so much selflessness i want to take, which means i’ll never have it

i’ll always be learning how to love, unlearning the haves i think i need to have. getting lipstick on my burrito was the best poem i’ve ever written and i’ll only call anyone on the phone when i have it in me to say I Love You before the dial tone

i love you

all of you

but also i live you. i live you i live you i live you
even if i can’t say it out loud