Elizeya Quate, Howie Good, Ceilan Hunter Green,
Jessie Janeshek, Lana Bella, Vanessa Saunders

Artwork & Illustrations
Titus Groan, Sharon Suzuki-Martinez,
Daniel de Cullá

Alessandro Mario Powell & Samuel Rowe &
Emma Mackilligin



From the Editors…………………3
Cymera by Daniel de Cullá…………………4
What’s Real Is Feeling Opposite…………………5
Somewhere Yesterday…………………6
Hen Night…………………8
Obvious Concealments…………………9
Noirpoem #2 / Afterbite…………………10
This Perforated Morning…………………11
Dear Suki: Letter U for Untangled…………………12
Near the Bottom…………………13
What’s Real Is Feeling The Same…………………14
He Was…………………15
The Next Last Night…………………16
Cymera by Daniel de Cullá…………………18

Front Cover: Untitled by Titus Groan
Back Cover: Unamused Orca by Sharon Suzuki-Martinez


From the Editors

Our ominous, gorgeous Killer Whale Journal cover for Volume
Five says it all. 2016: a bad year for Apple Inc., worse for humans,
but a fine year for whales. Perhaps the whales are right, and 2016
will be viewed in the rearview as the time of plentiful blubber.
Let us hope the whale are wrong.
More than our previous Vol.s, Five bears an uncanny resemblance
to the mad cow of a year that birthed her. What’s more, we seem
to have settled on "Vol." instead of "Issue" as a nomenclature—
vol. is a calming word, I think, whereas issue has proven
problematic. 2016 was a bad haircut on a cold day, my friends.
We simply need more volume.
As our submission pool swells with the tide of fresh faced
internet poets, so too grows our self-respect. We promise to take
ourselves seriously in 2017 if you will too.

– Alessandro Mario Powell

It has been a raw year. But I am reminded of Charles Olson, who
opens the Maximum Poems as “…I, Maximus/ a metal hot from/
boiling water, tell you/ what is a lance,/ who obeys the figures/
of the present dance”. Thank you to Work to a Calm for allowing
us to reproduce ‘What’s Real is Feeling Opposite’ and ‘Obvious
Concealments’, which first appeared in their eleventh issue. And
thank you as ever to our poets and illustrators. We’d be empty
without you.

– Samuel Rowe

I am honored, nay, humbled to have had the pleasure of helping
Sam and Ale put together this Vol. Reading through your
submissions was an inspiring and faith-in-humanity-restoring
experience at the close of this strange, dark year, so thank you
all for sharing your words with us. I hope that you are uplifted
and bolstered by this Vol. and detect no dip in KWJ quality for
my input. I am but a friendly dolphin cavorting in the slipstream
of two majestic orcas…

– Emma Mackilligin

Elizeya Quate

What’s Real Is Feeling Opposite
None of
this is real.
I am
a bus station.
You are
a pair of
I am
a motel lobby.
You are
a road
sign warning of
I am
a steering
You are
a crackly
radio station.
I am
an empty
You are
the horizon
of I-80, flush
-ing scarlet with
a sudden

Opposite: Cymera by Daniel de Cullá


Howie Good

Somewhere Yesterday
This is America,
what comes
with the dawn,
a wrapped rose,
optimistic boxes,
a place just
up the stairs
but somehow
hard to find.


Ceilan Hunter Green

My grandmother has eaten dog and so that is why when
I am playing the game she wants to play
she is happy, and why she
asks me questions, and that is why she
insists on making dinner to feed me
and longs for me to say Yes today
I did meet someone, a stranger
My grandmother, she says, has eaten cat and so she
is soft and looks me in the eye and
why she will change her mind as we
are sitting painlessly in sun,
and she wears only black or white
or navy and why she travels so light
My grandmother once ate tarantula and that is why her
hair is always in place and she places
each foot carefully and moves through
the house with one hand placed to hold her;
why she tells me how my father learned
to talk; why she remembers when my father
learned to talk; why she offers me wine
and money, and why I touch her shoulder
gently when I go to kiss her goodbye.


Hen Night
Four women to a room,
road trip, prosecco in the car,
straws shaped like dicks & all the rest.
A deposit on our silence after midnight.
Our silence is expensive.
My silence is free.
I straighten my hair too.
I take a shot too and put on more foundation.
One of them is changing and I don’t look at her body.
She tells us about her dog,
how she took it to the vet
who found a wound in its leg by its asshole.
Cleaned it out and found it honeycombed
inside with maggots.
We shudder. We apply perfume
and sit on the terrace, smoke
cigarette and cigarette, drink.
Only one fly needed to lay eggs.
The dog was uncomplaining as they pulled
the little bodies out and rinsed his sick wound.
My hair looks good. I practice
smiling for the photos.


Elizeya Quate

Obvious Concealments
I want to
that sweet
glimpse of
last summer’s moon
inside this
not what
I’m trying to
do here,
At least
I’m not
very hard.
concealments, I
think, because they
draw attention
to what
one’s not
to wish
was there.


Jessie Janeshek

Noirpoem #2 / Afterbite
You lie on the Superman towel
a doll with no neck
watch the female horseflies
sanction your leg.
I want to talk about
the girl on the trampoline almost a coolness
summer a cheat
wondrous though
the Sun-In made her platinum
a Jean Harlow death double.
Her gun-happy family
reckoned the high grass feeding her cake in the dark.
There’s something real to walking
the creek in the heat
dinosaur bones
spider music inside us.
Our mother said
peroxide’s the dirtiest word
the girl’s head a cloud
of unmanageable fluff.
We calmed our own hair with lemon and butter
understood the path to the paradox
no streetlight
no father
hurtling forward.
I wished for the luxury
of infertility
too young to fuck. I wanted to talk about
the pregnant lady in the black mumu
not mention the baby.
We tried bikinis
on our increasing bodies
made fun of the fat
in my armpits.
I wrote the lifeguard
lust letters on Miss Piggy stationery.
You thought my burns were stretchmarks.
I changed my tampon
for the first time
in conditioner dark.
The turtles paddle black water
know your shriveled nipples
get married in morning.
I kick the cicada off the deck
say I’m sorry I didn’t realize
you were still alive
and once we die all the nachos
we eat for lunch
become significant.


Elizeya Quate

This Perforated Morning
This morning
I look at with one
eye stares back
with a thousand.
I can’t tell if it’s
filled with tiny
holes or not, my
stomach aches.
On the subway
I fell into a man
and said I was
sorry. I don’t know
if he accepted
my apology. He didn’t
have any hair but
I think we were
the same age. That
got me thinking.
This morning
I look at with one
eye stares back
with less than zero.
I can’t tell if it’s
filled with tiny
holes or not, my
stomach aches.


Lana Bella

Dear Suki: Letter U for Untangled
Dear Suki: Blue Lakes, California, November 3rd,
draped in white, shored by the autumn flecks of
peeling sky, you walked the thin visibility with I
beside, scant conversations between fine screech
of overhead larks and fog groping the way a mad
woman paled behind sanity. Moccasin-robed feet
crept outward, each step crushed to confetti of our
shadows untangling in independence; close enough
to be discernible. Lakes of me, flesh of you, dearest
Suki, have you ever thought how the whole of us
still dripped from my lips? lacking the caresses of
nuptial fingers, and how I am still nursing me
about the halfway point, as my legs tumbled down
and ached my hips arranging the miles-long road
back to you.


Near the Bottom

I wanted to tell you but my voice has gone soft
like a mad crab falling noiselessly into a boiling
pot, given the scale of such hindsight, I turned
away, sure that my masquerade would soon
pull gravity from its earthly station, holding up
the edifice of our love story in the palms of the
the story began with you eternally remembered,
in this photograph of aged sepia tone and frameless corners, I was eight and you ten, your shirt
rolled up about the midriff, my left hand draped
over your thin shoulder, fingers coiled into bare
flesh, and in that snapshot, I held the lump of
your innocence in my caress—
even now, I knew whose acoustics would pollute
you, when the sounds of my syllables became
thick with gurgles as a tired drunk struggling
with speech, so we both ran away from this place
of longing and consolation, still, I reached out for
you, but you appeared distant, so indiscernible as
to be abstract--


Elizeya Quate

What’s Real Is Feeling The Same
None of
this is real.
I am
a gravel pit
You are
the paused
our breaths.
I am
a cement
You are
the hot
chirr of
I am
an exit
You are
you are
you are
getting off.
None of
this is real.
an ambiguous omen,
until even
I was not
sure we’d
stay the same.


Vanessa Saunders

He Was
He was a man. I could not compete with his body.
A wind shakes the androgynous branches of an oak tree.
It is like that.
The word ‘important.’
A car-ride through a fake black tunnel.
Then broke up trees.
His chest squared and even.
My voice mud and blunt.
Verdant leaves, the light drops off
into the sound of a crushed all quiet.
Honey, I’m home


Elizeya Quate

The Next Last Night
The next last
night I started
at the beginning
and afterwards it
wasn't any different
just twice as frizzy
like a brown VCR
tape that’s been rewound too many times.
The next last
night I started
over at the
beginning but
only by arriving
at such a middling
kind of end, that
I felt no choice
but to seek
a fresh finish
from the outset.
Then I walked
outside breathing
stiff vapors, watching
that silver peach
of a moon get
knifed by a Victorian
spire near Zeitgeist, kicking
her legs over
the dense abyss
of Market Street.
The last night it
was the next night
again and I went out,
saying goodbye
to new beginnings
and the night after
I welcomed them


back into my
denuded cheeks,
burnt with famous
last words, my eyes
befogged and friendly.
The next night
I stayed late
at the office
catching up on
paperwork and
the night after that
it was already
yesterday again,
once more at the
kind of beginning
where I could at
least shed my
grace and end.
So I started
nothing. And
ended everything. It felt
good, I think,
it felt the
way a nothing’s
to somehow
feel, good
only when
it’s just
Then the next
last night all
the streets
reeked the
randic tang
of fresh piss and
marijuana. To
stroll last night’s
to feel so loose
with sainted filth.
The night after
I had a mild
stomach ache
and decided
to stay in and
read a magazine.
Opposite: Cymera by Daniel de Cullá


Elizeya Quate
inspired by Clarice Lispector and OBERIU, Elizeya Quate is an invitation to dance and/or
denounce the equals sign as a self-negating sham. Quate's first novelish-in-stories The
Face of Our Town (Kernpunkt Press, 2016) is out this summer.

Howie Good
is a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author
of Dangerous Acts Starring Unstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize
for Poetry. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

Ceilan Hunter Green
is a poet and printmaker from Spokane, WA, who lives and works in Edinburgh. Her
recent work appears in the zine Reality Bites, in the Unprecedented Review, and online at

Jessie Janeshek
’s second full-length book of poems, The Shaky Phase, is forthcoming from Stalking
Horse Press. Invisible Mink (Iris Press) is her first full-length collection, and you can read
more of her poetry at

Lana Bella

is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and author of two chapbooks, Under My Dark and
Adagio (forthcoming). She resides in the Us and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam,
where she is a mom of two far-too-clever frolicsome imps.

Vanessa Saunders
enjoys green tea and long walks on the beach

Titus Groan
: though little’s known of him, make your own assumptions from the etchings he

Daniel de Cullá
is a Castilian and Aragon poet. Highly involved with natural life and love. Popular and
often quoted. Editor of the cultural reviews Gallo Tricolor and Robespierre.

Sharon Suzuki-Martinez
’s photos have appeared in the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center, 92Y’s
#wordswelivein project, and Right Hand Pointing. She is also the author of The Way of All
Flux (New Rivers Press, 2012), and the Editor of The Poet’s Playlist


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