Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson

Scott Alexander Jones

Scott Alexander Jones is the author of elsewhere (Black Lawrence Press, 2014), Carpe Demons (Unsolicited Press, 2014), and One Day There Will Be Nothing to Show That We Were Ever Here (Bedouin Books, 2009). He is co-founder of the punk literary magazine, Zero Ducats, and his poems have appeared in over fifty journals. In 2009, he received his MFA from the University of Montana and was a writer-in-residence at the Montana Artists Refuge. In 2011, he received the Nancy Dew Taylor Poetry Award from Emrys Journal. He lives in Lawrence, Kansas.



Peter Feng


Peter Feng was born in Chongqing, China, in 1979. He has received a Ph.D degree in literature from Nanjing University and currently teaches English at Jinan University. He has translated The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath (2013), The Web and the Rock (2011), A Journey through the Chinese Empire (2006), and co-written a book of poems: Cruel Raven (2011). His study includes poetry, psychoanalysis, and contemporary philosophy.

(from) elsewhere


That finger on your temple is the barrel of my raygun— That wretched dull resonance breaching walls where windows once were, here at the end of all things tells us nothing we haven't already been told regarding nightjars— That eyelid slit of light beneath the bathroom door at the end of the hallway yellow & yellowish & yellowing as deciduous leaves come winter says one of us remains awake at this androgynous hour lighting candles meant to conjure azaleas. Call it evening despite our blue proximity to morning— Blue as your tattered pea coat I always mistook for black— Choose any definition of blackout: A scarlet pulsing of stoplights or the scar in my abdomen from the failed appendectomy of a cyclone fence— And if I am sleeping thru the lullabies of a summer storm, you are screaming an arsenal of auburn cellos into hiding— Your lipstick desperately flamingo. Soundlessly agape as Civil War daguerreotypes. We have arrived at the scene of the film where the first bullets hail down— All sound cuts out— Your larynx banished brailleward by explosions in the sky. Toward the more taciturn outskirts of anywhere but here— The nowheres we/ll no longer witness together— Scouring burnt lexicons in search of the perfect word for murmurs of wind caught in a vacant stairwell—


那根手指在你太阳穴上 我的激光枪管—— 一声悲惨的闷响 撕开墙壁,那儿曾有窗,在 一切终结之处 什么也没告诉我们 关于夜鹰 我们仍没有消息—— 那眼睑般的光之狭缝 在走廊尽头洗手间的下方 黄色,淡黄,泛黄 如落叶林的叶子 来吧,冬天 说我们中的一个 还醒着,在这雌雄同体的时刻 点亮蜡烛意味着唤起那些杜鹃。 称它为夜晚吧,尽管 我们正接近黎明的蓝—— 蓝得像你褴褛的海军呢大衣,我总将它错认为黑—— 选择任何方式定义 晕厥: 信号灯的一次深红颤动 或我腹部的伤口,留下一个气旋的 失败的阑尾切除术 栅栏—— 如果我睡过了夏日风暴的 催眠曲,你的尖叫 使褐色大提琴的 军械库隐没—— 你的口红,极度的火烈鸟。 无声地张开如内战时期的银板摄影。 我们已经抵达 电影中的那幕场景,最初的子弹如冰雹降下—— 所有声音被剪掉—— 你的喉咙 被驱逐向盲文 因天空中的爆炸。 朝向此处之外任何一个 更加沉默的边缘—— 那些无处 我们/将不再共同见证—— 擦亮烧焦的词汇,寻找那完美之词,为 困入一座空楼梯井的 风的低语——

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