Poems by Jennifer L. Knox

Editor's note: these poems originally appeared in the old/previous Luna Luna

The New Twilight Zone: “Empty City”

The cloud cover enveloping our hull
splits, shifts to our back like a parachute,
and we descend to the city below. Its three
mighty rivers: now kinked, dribbling hoses.
The scent of seething biomass—brown mounds
going green again with psyched, thriving mold—
reaches us far up as we are—and look: plumes
of smoke snaking into the air there. Flames
and dry backyard blowup pools below coming
into focus, but too much sun to see the windows
in the buildings all have x’s in their eyes.
Between white lines dash-dash-dashing the roads:
not a car. The voice on the tower mic:
silent as a bee hive.

“Schenectady Is Most Definitely

a hyperbolic landscape full of empty swimming pools,
violent men with tight asses straining the seams of their acid
washed jeans, pizza swamps of molten cheese with slices,
like my heart, rrrrrripped out—like starfish missing arms,
but opposite—inverted—or something,” my voice trails
off but my hands keep miming a triangle shape in the air,
tee-peeing it pointy and knifey to show him the purport of that
invisible missing piece, its edge so etched in my brain, then
one hand slips down the other side like a bathtub spider so
I climb back up the spout…

                                               “Did you take your crazy pills?”

he asks. “I don’t have anything to swallow them with,” I reply,
about to cry. He pulls over, we get out, I follow him into
the branches of an overgrown cloud of a hedge, green
as animal eyes, to a blue pool hidden in the middle.
“Swallow them with that,” he points at the water.
“It’s full of chemicals,” I insist. “Not for years,”
he grins. I bend down to the water, “You’re like
an almanac—gulp gulp.” Somehow, again, I’d
missed the shy emptying and filling,
the husk, bud and bloom.

The End of NYC

I sat down on the F train across from a woman (?)—long stringy black wig, short dirty white skirt, bad plastic surgery, bulges like slugs shifting under her skin. Taking up her entire right calf: a tattoo of a woman’s face—a sad woman with her hair in rollers—thick lips and eyelids—lips curled back—teeth showing but not smiling. The hair rollers. The eyes rolled back. My mind told me that the woman across from me was a genius. I made eye contact with her. “That’s the best tattoo I’ve ever seen,” I said. She lit up, “Yes, I’ve got two! It only took him an hour, it’s my angel…” her words poured out without pause. Instantly, I understood she was nervous and desperately lonely—not the kind of woman who’d get an ironic tattoo. My eyes moved back to her calf. Those weren’t hair rollers‚ just sproingy ringlet curls. It was an angel, and the worst tattoo I’d ever seen. I felt the recognition of this fall across my face, and I saw her see it on my face. Like when Jack Nicholson in The Shining thinks he’s making out with the hot chick who just crawled out of the bathtub, and he looks in the mirror and sees she’s really dead. I’d like to think I didn’t look that horrified, when, for no reason she would ever understand, I turned on her and her angels.

Hive Minds

Riding in the car with my mother, I never graduated from the back seat to the front. Whenever I tried to climbing in next to her (“This is stupid—I’m riding up front”), she’d howl and swipe at me until I caved. That was how she defended her space. We drove around like that until I got my driver’s license: us two, locked in the dust-mote mottled skies of our own minds, counting things. Me: syllables and the shadows of telephone poles falling across the car. Her: I don’t know. She can’t describe her OCD to me—only that it has to do with numbers—some inexplicable tally she’s been running all her life. I imagine it like a spider’s web, easily disturbed, then dispersed by the breath of other people. Whatever its shape, it’s the only thing that’s ever soothed her.

One stalk of corn can’t bear fruit by itself. It needs other stalks around to pollinate. Even a single row won’t cut it. Indians knew to grow them in circles, my boyfriend tells me. And sunflowers, his father adds, grown in a row will take turns bending north, then south, etc. down the line to give each other a shot at the light. We’re in the garden after dinner. Suddenly I envy anything that moves itself to accommodate another: a subtle shift to the left or right, self preservation that could pass for love.

____________________________________________________

Jennifer L. Knox is the author of Days of Shame and Failure (Bloof Books, 2015). Her other books, The Mystery of the Hidden Driveway, Drunk by Noon, and A Gringo Like Me are also available from Bloof. Her poems have appeared four times in the Best American Poetry series (1997, 2003, 2006, and 2011), as well as in the anthologies Great American Prose Poems: From Poe to the Present and Best American Erotic Poems.

The Books That Lied

BY NICOLA PRENTIS

As an adult, I read when I can steal a moment back from my day. A book can take months to finish. The bookmark has always fallen out and sometimes I read several pages before realising I'm covering old ground. Books are entertainment, inspiration, education, the best of them might make me cry but they rarely get my full attention now that attention is divided between so many more duties. But the books I read as a teenager, when I could spend an entire weekend curled around one on the sofa, shaped me. From treasured volumes to throw away instalments of teen serials, Judy Blume, LM Montgomery, Francine Pascal and the authors of countless historical romances taught me about myself, boys and sex. 

They lied.

From age 13, I was at the library every Saturday to take out the 6 books my card allowed. I often went with friends so we could maximise the loan number by swapping books between us, queueing up together to borrow the book the second the other girl returned it. At school we had to keep a reading log, a chore for most of the class but a badge of honour to those of us getting through two or three books a week. By age 15, my teen and historical romance reading list had expanded to include horror, Stephen King and Graham Masterton, and bonkbusters, Jackie Collins and Jilly Cooper, but none of those led to the damage the more age-appropriate books did. 

The walk to the library, like any walk into town, brought the honking of cars if I wore a skirt. They slowed down to allow craning necks, maybe a shouted comment, even though, at 13, I was probably with my mother. She still looked good, but we both knew that it was my blondish hair and shapely calves that drew their attention. I revelled in it. I was Jessica Wakefield of Sweet Valley High – less sun-kissed, less kissed, but I too wore denim miniskirts 'teamed with' high-heeled 'pumps.' When bad boy Bruce Patman tried to untie the top of the sexy bikini Jessica had picked out, she playfully swatted his hand away. Jessica was a sassy 16-year-old and boys did her bidding. When two boys pinned me to the floor at a friend's house-party and pulled up the sexy, short, tight dress I was wearing, I only escaped more than a groping because someone intervened. 

At 17, an older boy, Sean*, was finally mine after I'd longed for him throughout a year of glimpses around town. He looked just like teen heartthrob Jason Priestly of Beverly Hills 90210. I was the same age as Katherine in Forever when she started going out with Michael. Katherine decided to seal their love by having sex for the first time. Michael was patient and understanding and so was Ralph, his penis.  The Jason Priestly lookalike's penis was less patient. Every time we were alone together, I felt I had to go that bit further even though I'd stopped being comfortable (slightly post-Jessica's limit) when he had my top off. I eventually gave in because it seemed easier than saying no – again. Where Michael gave Katherine an orgasm just by moving slowly inside her, Sean's Ralph hurt too much to carry on. In fact, I realised years later when I managed to banish the memory enough to lose my virginity, it hadn't even been fully in. Afterwards, Katherine asked Michael to show her what to do for him. I just wanted to be somewhere else. Sean wanted to try again. I asked, "Do we have to?"

At university, in the first two weeks, I met Andy. He brought me a mug of tomato soup in bed when I had flu and then kissed me for the first time, even though I'd told him I was so bunged up I could hardly breathe. I kissed him back long enough, I hoped, to be polite and say thanks for the soup. While Anne of Green Gables rebuffed Gilbert Blythe over and over, he remained her admirer through school, college and beyond. Andy would leave my room so sexually frustrated, he said, that he was bouncing off the walls. We were together six weeks until he dumped me. I told myself, if only I had been able to have sex with him, we would have lasted. 

I went through university with a gaggle of Wonderbra-enhanced, short-skirted and flirtatious friends, the modern-dressed versions of the heroines in historical novels. Corseted, breasts pushed up, vying for the attention of a Lord or King, they held out long enough to gain titles and wealth and only then succumbed to his lusts.  We got in free to the Student Union 80s night on Tuesdays, Club Tropicana. The bouncers got a quick flash of hoisted up flesh and we saved £2.50. I think we even skipped the line. I once got so drunk that when a male friend took me home at the end of the night, I came to my senses on top of him and didn't know who he was. We never mentioned it afterwards.

My teenage literary heroines lived in worlds penned by women who were living a romanticised story version of what I now know their real lives could never have been. They could never have met many real Michaels or Gilberts, would have been lucky to meet no-one more sinister than the easily caged Bruce, and I doubt any Kings had showered gifts in return for their virtue. As a teenager, I knew the stories weren't real but I still believed in the fiction. I thought you could tease boys and keep them under your playful control. I thought the first time would be special and on my terms. I thought saying "no" would inspire respect at least, if not my own manor house. The girlish books I inhabited taught me nothing about how to deal with male libido as it really is: unromantic, unyielding, always on the lookout for a weak moment. 

I wish I could tell the teenagers of the last few years that they're never going to meet a chastely respectful Edward Cullen or a lovesick Peeta Mallark, grateful for whatever bone they throw him. I wish I could warn them: the fiction isn't only the vampires and the Games. As a writer, perhaps I should be writing books for girls that teach them how different, how dark, men can be when they're hot for it. Or, maybe it would take a man to write an honest book for teenage girls. But I still want to make believe. I lie for myself with my charming heroes and my in-charge heroines, despite knowing I risk the next generation of girls falling for the lies like I did.

*name changed

---

Nicola Prentis has written for Salon, xojane, AlterNet and Refinery 29 and has had short fiction published. 

13 Aesthetically Beautiful Literary Journals To Submit To & Read

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

Great writing will always be the most important element for any journal, but being pretty also doesn't hurt. The below publishers have taken time to build an aesthetic world for their contributors and readers, making the read a much more meaningful and whole experience. Whether minimalist or colorfully elaborate, these sites are gorgeously bespoke, thoughtful and filled with talent.

ANTHROPOID
From the publisher: "We love the fundamental business of being humanesque. Issues of identity, culture, belonging or lack, vulnerability, collectivism, the body, ritual–anthropological subjects from a generalist’s view, or, cultural moments from a messy, personal perspective. Tightly snuggled with visuals for each feature, we publish in collected issues and individual articles: ethnography & essays, experiential narratives, fiction & poetry, visuals, conceptual work, and genre-bending, from voices in the literary field, the humanities, and the sciences."

We recommend reading: Aura Girl, by Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick

PAPERBAG
From the publisher: "Paperbag is interested in presenting larger bodies of visual art, poetry, sound, experiment, and collaboration from established and emerging writers and artists throughout the world."

We recommend reading: Everything Will Be Taken Away, by Morgan Parker

ROGUE AGENT
From the publisher: "If our bodies are oppressed by an outside force, we are "written over." Rogue Agent wants to retaliate. Rogue Agent wants reconciliation. Rogue Agent wants to share your stories about the poem that is the body. "

We recommend reading: Blow Her Up, by Juliet Cook
 

TARPAULIN SKY
From the publisher: "As with Tarpaulin Sky’s books, the magazine focuses on cross-genre / trans-genre / hybrid forms as well as innovative poetry and prose. The journal is not allied with any one style or school or network of writers; rather, we try to avoid some of the defects associated with dipping too often into the same literary gene pool, and the diversity of our contributors is evidence of our eclectic interests."

We recommend reading: A Mouth, A Maw, by Lital Khaikan

PITH
From the publisher: "Pith is an online journal that collects experimental bits. We define “experimental” as something akin to a deep breath of uncertainty; an inclination to remain lost when certainty is calling. Visual/written hybrids, multi-genre writing, erasures….that sort of thing."

We recommend reading: Deus Ex Machina/Rachel, by Jennifer Pilch

BAT CITY REVIEW
From the publisher: "Founded in 2004, Bat City Review is an annual literary journal run by graduate students at the University of Texas at Austin, supported by the English Department and the James A. Michener Center for Writers. We read thousands of submissions each year and publish only the best in poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and visual art. "

We recommend reading: Afterwards, the boys stand in the kitchen, by Francine J. Harris

AMPERSAND REVIEW
From the publisher: "We are looking for creative work, but only good creative work. Give us God, give us man, give us people & make us laugh. If you can make us cry, do so, if you want to lament loss of pets & family, do not. We enjoy pleasant nonsense & the deeply profound, the sharp little crack of things we don’t speak of in polite company. We want to feel, & we want to want, & we don’t want Cheap Trick jokes inserted here, unless they are awesome. We are strict & unbiased; aesthetic & craft are Queen; we want to read a good piece as much as our readers, so write one before submitting."

We recommend reading: Illness as Matador, by Michael Klein

THE BOILER JOURNAL
From the publisher: "The Boiler began in 2011 by a group of writers at Sarah Lawrence College. We publish poetry, fiction, and nonfiction on a quarterly basis. We like work that turns up the heat, whistles, and stands up to pressure."

We recommend reading: Poems by Sarah Ann Winn

PRICK OF THE SPINDLE
From the publisher: "We publish poetry, fiction (from flash to novella-length), drama, creative and academic nonfiction, articles, interviews, literary reviews, film, and visual art. Although we do not publish genre fiction, we are open to different forms. These may be more traditional, but infused with freshness and innovation; or experimental but not chaotic: if it is chaos in complete freedom of form you are aiming at, envelop it within some structure, even if only the structure of meaning. To submit, visit the submission guidelines page for the link to the submission manager."

We recommend reading: In Case of Infection, by Vicki Entreken

LANA TURNER
From the publisher: "The Lana Turner Blog is edited by David Lau. Currently seeking essays or reviews of recent books of poetry, albums, literary criticism, films, film theory, and accounts of contemporary political economy. Accepting proposals for various kinds of journalistic reports. Electronic submission should be sent in one file to dmlau@ucsc.edu. Submissions welcome all year."

We recommend reading: 3 poems from Trilce, by Cesar Vallejo

* Bonus points for publishing Vallejo

BERFROIS
From the publisher: "Berfrois is a literary-intellectual online magazine. It is edited by Russell Bennetts. The site is updated daily. Berfrois is published by Pendant Publishing in London, UK." 

We recommend reading: Doohickey: Vertigo's Elusive Homage, by B. Alexandra Szerlip

SPORKLET
From the publisher: "Sporklet (est’d. 2015) is published quasi-monthly, features poetry & fiction, and occasionally includes solicited art, music, film…"

We recommend reading: Seven poems, by Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein

LA VAGUE
From the publisher: "La Vague publishes eight female poets and eight works by a female artist under a set theme twice a year in January and July. La Vague intends to show the close relationship between poetry and visual art and how certain themes resonate among the contributors."

We recommend reading: Start minting, Uninc, by Candance Wuelhe

About the Woman by Josh Raab

BY JOSH RAAB

You are alone. You are not wearing any clothes. You touch the mole below your left breast. The left breast is a writer's worst cliché and your best characteristic. You think about how faceless you are. The way men have desecrated you. They've turned you into a poem so two dimensional that the wind cannot blow it. They have toiled to explain you. Your mole, moving from just below your ankle to the nape of your neck. The nape of the neck and the mole and the lips, all turned and twisted in flesh and in ink. The man's room, so small, his typewriter in need of oil, or ribbon, or whatever it is that typewriters need apart from your body.

Sometimes you feel the thoughts flowing through your belly button and up out your nose as you exhale. You feel someone writing about you, you feel yourself being wrong about yourself. You are mistaken about the placement of your own limbs. You are tired with yourself. You're tired of watching the color of your skin change from olive to porcelain. You're tired of that mole rubbing your skin dry and flaky as it is forced across your skin.

Sometimes, when you've got a new dress on, you wonder who paid for it, what did they want in return. What event were you meant to go to. They won’t let you look in the mirror unless it's to do make-up. They won’t let you breathe unless it's to sing. They won’t let you sing unless it's to praise or entertain. Sometimes you burst out in song and your parent's long table of friends laugh and clap and tell you you'll find a fine suitor with a voice like that. You feel each tendon picked through with rough fingers. Fingers rough from fields and soft from lotion.

You feel each strand of hair being plucked out one by one. You feel no pain, just the sharp prick of your hairs being taken away. Never in one direction, always in all directions. You can't tell if hair is being taken or added to your head, it all feels so wrong. And no one has ever placed the mole on your skull where it might look and feel best.

And your toes do not understand, your kneecap does not get it, your flank both flat and rolled are dumb and deaf, your teeth and their stains or their brilliance do not understand, your lips and your arms are stupid, your ears are commonplace and silent, listening. Your brain rages with electricity, but no one writes about it. Inside: your bravery, your valor, your anger, your quaint madness, your insecurity, your security, your condescension and your humility.

Your brain, that ugly, invisible blob. I would have nothing to say about it. No wisdom to impart about it, no poem to romanticize it, no song to serenade it, no conversation to coax it out. No, we've got nothing to say about your brain. The mole is in the middle of your cheek now, so delicate, soft, brown, and inspiring. 
 

---

Josh Raab been published or featured in The Orlando Sentinel, The LA Times, The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Louisville Review, The American Anthology of Poetry, and Thought Catalog. They worked short stints at Random House and The Overlook Press before leaving to Kickstart his experimental book publisher, theNewerYork. After some successes, the small press was sued by The New Yorker for trademark infringement and then became spiritually and financially bankrupted. They were born in Montreal, raised outside Orlando, went to high-school in Santa Barbara, and graduated from New York University with a degree in English and a minor in Philosophy. They live in Los Angeles with his fiancé. When they are not writing or playing piano, they work for The Industry Productions, a radical non-profit opera company. 

The Week's Reading List: Transcendental meditation, home funerals, tiny houses, selfies & tarot

We read a lot of good stuff this week. What are reading, or what did you write? Leave it in the comments below, and we'll consider it for our next roundup. 

---

Kenneth Anger: Film As Magical Ritual’: Jaw-Dropping German TV Doc From 1970 - Dangerous Minds
"Anger’s interview segments were shot as he sat behind a makeshift altar, lit in magenta and inside of the magical “war gods” circle seen at the end of the film."

On Refugees and Refusing To Be Scared - The Rumpus
"Bring them here for as long as they need refuge, and if they want to make a home here, even better. I’m not scared. I refuse to be scared."

On Pandering - Tin House
"What did Tina Fey say about sexists in the workplace: over, under, and through. The problem with responding to sexism with Sesame Street is that if you read that e-mail as I read that e-mail, as I was being trained to read—that is, carefully and curiously, over and over—you’ll see something more than the story Stephen told himself about me as a writer or, in this case, not a writer. I saw, in the form of paragraphs and sentences, my area of expertise, how it took only a few lines to go from professional dismissal to sexual entitlement to being treated as property to gaslighting."

David Lynch and the Second Coming of Transcendental Meditation - Motherboard / Vice
"Practitioners of TM engage in two 20-minute meditation sessions per day; once in the morning and once in the evening. They access this field by silently repeating a mantra given to them by a certified TM instructor. By connecting with the Unified Field, meditators purportedly feel calmer and more at peace."

Iskra Lawrence’s Favorite Black Friday Deals for All Sizes - Runway Riot
"Forever 21 has deals starting from $4, and with Macy’s door-busters, you will definitely bag a bargain. For fresh fast fashion, take a look at Boohoo. They have 20% off the entire range, and Old Navy has the code: early bird for 30% off or 40% if you spend over $100."
(PS: Luna Luna is a huge fan of Runway Riot.)

Our Bodies, Ourselves:  A funeral director wants to bring death back home. - The New Yorker
“'People are afraid of death,” she said. “Do you want to go sit with the corpse or do you want to party? If you put it like that, it’s not a very hard question.” She is not denying that people can find great comfort in a personalized funeral ceremony. “But I would still argue that it doesn’t give you the full engagement with death and grieving that you need,” she says."

The Deck Of Cards That Made Tarot A Global Phenomenon - The Atlas Obscura
"Suddenly, worlds of knowledge, coupled with current thinking on the psychology of the human mind opened up, and people of all walks of life became enamored with contacting the spirit world to find out the future or to commune with the dead. Christians began reading the Kabbalah. Interest in photographing ghosts rose."

On Pandering - Tin House
"What did Tina Fey say about sexists in the workplace: over, under, and through. The problem with responding to sexism with Sesame Street is that if you read that e-mail as I read that e-mail, as I was being trained to read—that is, carefully and curiously, over and over—you’ll see something more than the story Stephen told himself about me as a writer or, in this case, not a writer. I saw, in the form of paragraphs and sentences, my area of expertise, how it took only a few lines to go from professional dismissal to sexual entitlement to being treated as property to gaslighting."

David Lynch and the Second Coming of Transcendental Meditation - Motherboard / Vice
"Practitioners of TM engage in two 20-minute meditation sessions per day; once in the morning and once in the evening. They access this field by silently repeating a mantra given to them by a certified TM instructor. By connecting with the Unified Field, meditators purportedly feel calmer and more at peace."

Iskra Lawrence’s Favorite Black Friday Deals for All Sizes - Runway Riot
"Forever 21 has deals starting from $4, and with Macy’s door-busters, you will definitely bag a bargain. For fresh fast fashion, take a look at Boohoo. They have 20% off the entire range, and Old Navy has the code: early bird for 30% off or 40% if you spend over $100." 
PS: We LOVE Runway Riot.

Our Bodies, Ourselves:  A funeral director wants to bring death back home. - The New Yorker
“'People are afraid of death,” she said. “Do you want to go sit with the corpse or do you want to party? If you put it like that, it’s not a very hard question.” She is not denying that people can find great comfort in a personalized funeral ceremony. “But I would still argue that it doesn’t give you the full engagement with death and grieving that you need,” she says."

The Thing All Women Do That You Don’t Know About - Drifting Through My Mind
"Maybe I’m realizing that men can’t be expected to understand how pervasive everyday sexism is if we don’t start telling them and pointing to it when it happens. Maybe I’m starting to realize that men have no idea that even walking into a store women have to be on guard. We have to be aware, subconsciously, of our surroundings and any perceived threats."

The Troubling Trendiness Of Poverty Appropriation - The Establishment
"And it’s not just the Tiny House Movement that incites my discontent. From dumpster diving to trailer-themed bars to haute cuisine in the form of poor-household staples, it’s become trendy for those with money to appropriate the poverty lifestyle—and it troubles me for one simple reason. Choice."

Selfie: The revolutionary potential of your own face, in seven chapters - Medium
"I think about Francesca Woodman; the lovely, doomed Francesca, the daughter of two bohemian artists, a plaintive blonde who spent summers in Italy and learned to take photographs of herself in an old farm house. She started noodling around with a camera when she was only 14 in 1972, fully committing herself to her work when she went off to study at RISD three years later. She sent her shots to fashion houses and magazines, but couldn’t really get much traction; she applied for grants and residencies with mixed results. She was in such a rush to become a success that any slowness in the process felt like a deep insult. Her depression rolled in like an unshakable fog. She tried to kill herself once, then again, and in 1981, when she was only 22, she succeeded by leaping out of a window of a building on the East Side of Manhattan."

Ridin' Dirty: A Sweeping Look At Witches Mounting Their Broomsticks - Broadly
"There is very much a sense that women are the weaker vessel—that they are more sexually voracious than men, more susceptible to sexual sin and therefore more likely to lead men astray." Take women with basic medicinal knowledge; add domestic implements, hallucinogenic properties, and conscribed female existence; add a healthy dose of male anxiety, and you may very well make witches."