Tag Archives: elimae

Missing Elimae + Transitive Verbs

9 May

Found myself reminiscing and digging through Elimae’s archives this morning. Came across this gem from Stephanie Lane Sutton, Transitive Verb (coincidentally, the verbs I’ve been thinking about most often lately.) 

This is how we will unbutton: to cause an earthquake, which is to say
it was a disc, slipped, like a bone undone. What I look like from behind

walking away.


A transitive verb : is to open the folds of : to spread or straighten : expand, as with an open map


If you are the universe, it would explain the primal scum in your kitchen sink,
your ability to stack conversations, cheat at card games, how it is difficult
to explain without using you as a word in the definition…



Read the rest here



Letter with a Poem Attached/Email with a Poem Attached

1 Dec

Lately it’s been impossible for me to not think about travelling, even though I’m not going anywhere for a few weeks. Getting a letter seems like the next best thing to leaving town, but Harold Bowes’ poem/letter Letter With A Poem Attached/Email with a Poem Attached is the best thing.

Maybe it’s an air pocket, I don’t know
When you pull the sheet up over your body
The moment before it alights
On each toe
During the earthquake a few tiles fell

Read the rest at Elimae.

Game: Horses Holograms

7 Sep

Shane Jones’ fingertips might be full of magic. Don’t you think? Like, maybe his keyboard lights up a little bit every time he types up a story. Or even better, when he plays cat’s cradle the yarn turns into a beam of light. Look at the magic he’s woven over at Elimae:


During her best games of Horses Hologram, Mom produces eight individual holograms in eight beams of light, her hand contorted in a new symbol. The highest crystal nearly touches the ceiling, grazes corner cobwebs. The lowest hovers, flickers, near her ear, and once she tilted her head and half the crystal, part of the yellow beam, disappeared inside her hair.



Albino at Elimae

28 Jul

Sean Lovelace‘s blog referred me back to one of my favorites, Elimae, and their collection of Meg Pokrass‘ little fictions titled Albino, Mammaries, and Fido. I love, love, love it when bite-sized pieces punch me in the uvula. Here, read Mammaries:


“Nurse on me,” she said, “it’s very sweet.”
“How?” He liked her to show him exactly where, as though it were a secret.
“Just sip from here,” she pointed to her nipples. Her fingers on the left nipple, she pinched and didn’t wince. A drop of clear milk appeared. Bovine and fetching at the same time.
“Mmm. Mammaries,” he whispered.
The baby didn’t need them, had switched to soy.
The word “mammaries” made her giggle. They were oblong melons and would soon deflate from all of this.
Until he met her, his lips had been lonely and his ideas were faint. He believed he was shriveling — bones losing bone matter.
Nursing now, he felt blank, but not helpless.
“Babies cry because they don’t know,” she said.

See, don’t you want more now? Read more here.


7 May

Finishing up my undergraduate degree this past week, I used new issues of some amazing journals that May unleashed to give me a break.

Below are the new issues of journals that I’ve read this week and enjoyed a great deal, featuring the declaration of my favorite piece from each issue:

Sixth Finch:
Each With Our Own Occult by Eric AndersonThe first poem from the issue and oh man, it brings the POWER. Maybe, I’m biased because it’s two lines in and INDIANA. I love Indiana, but no, I love this poem for more than that, it’s delicate progression before the awww-boom ending.

Take 42 by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins Another delicately progressive poem that unfolds beautifully. That last line for some reason really shakes me.

Vinyl Poetry:
Self Portrait as Jeffrey Dahmer by Ocean Vuong I love how this poem uses its artifice and unexpectedly unleashes an insightful emotional journey. Just check out the opening two stanzas:

It is not the flesh I want
but what glows behind it.
For you are not the face
softened with evening. Not
the eyes I’ve searched,
in vain, for my own.

Because you are never what binds you—
not muscle or organ, not even
the voice: that rupture of air
I dare to deem melodic.

Diagram: Richard’s Mother Calls To Ask When He Is Coming Home by Daniel Story The distance this poem travels in its discussion of place, identity, and relationships is remarkable. Call it a ping-pong kinda thing. Also, I was impressed with how the use of the third person informed that movement.

I know many of you already read these magazines, but I hope you’ll check out these pieces and others if you haven’t already.

What are your favorite pieces from these issues? Any other new issues of journals I should not miss?

Elimae unleashes goodness upon us: After Museum1

31 Mar

The April edition of Elimae is out and waiting for you to delve in.

It starts of with a bang. I speak in reference to Kirsten Kaschock’s After Museum1.

Here’s an excerpt to entice you:

The next room is filled with frogs. They must have manifested or condensed along the ceiling, which is dripping. Their colors are striking, exquisite actually. The frogs have already died, or are dying, outside the museum — yet, in the room: golden toad, brown bull-, glass, poison blue. A thousand more. Frogs of every conceivable hue — gargoyling on every conceivable surface. Not hopping, but singing. The two-guide tells you that frogs are to ecologists as canaries are to coal-miners. The analogy reminds you of a ruler in the hands of a nun.

Like I said, bang.

I’m Supposed To Be Grading Papers

2 Feb

But seriously, I just snuck a look at the new elimae when I saw Tyler’s last post. And Erika Moya’s poem “Judgement” rocked me back in my chair a little.

So whatever you’re doing, take a break. Read a poem. Trust me: that stack of papers will wait.


1 Feb

Which I guess means a new issue of elimae. Another long list of killer pieces. My favorite? The last one, “Civil War” by Adam Peterson, for its layers and attention to detail.

J.A. Tyler Filling Up The Web Journals With Some Sweet Brother War Action

15 Jan

I first remember reading a selection from J.A. Tyler’s Variations of a Brother War in the September Issue of elimae.

Of course, I was like WOAH, astounded by how the sentences hold the action, the characters, seeming to release them once the section is finished.

Found out that another one is in Wigleaf. This is the Cabins Triptych. The tension is incredible here. I really want to say more, but these pieces speak for themselves.

Here are some more:

At Necessary Fiction

At Gulf Stream

At >kill author

At Knee-Jerk

I wanted to throw these together in one post because this is something special in the making, something that can speak for itself. One more thing from me: Rereading all these is a great Saturday morning experience.


6 Dec

I wasn’t kidding when I said Elimae was one of my favorite journals and though I try to refrain jumping on here the first week of every month and being like look at this cool thing I found on elimae because 1) you probably already read elimae (or at least you should) 2) I don’t wanna be predictable in the I-can-guarantee-Tyler-is-gonna-write-about-the-new-issue-of-elimae-between-the-2nd-and-7th-of-each-month kind of way. But yes, I read the new elimae and yes I found something, many things in fact, to be stokifying. Here is one:

In Halloween, Elizabeth Ellen starts with simple dialogue then throws out images and they clank together real well. At the end, I looked at the screen and went that’s odd, but cool. Then, I leaned over to this girl behind me and said, that’s odd, but cool. She raised an eyebrow, like yeah you are or something. I’m impressed with the way this story reminds me to be afraid of the power of stories, but also the world and women and my own gender, because this piece rips reality without telling me a thing.

This part in the middle made me go all WOAH WOAH WOAH:

Put one on, Saul says, and I’ll take your picture.
Okay, I say. But I’m not crawling on my hands and knees.
You have to, Saul says. We have to recreate the photographs exactly. We have to match every detail.
Even the chickens, I say.
Where the hell are we going to find chickens, Saul says.

I hope you like this story.