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be about it zine #15

WATER
A
T
E
R

Edited by Alexandra Naughton

March, 2018

BE ABOUT IT PRESS
Fuck extremism

The virtue sits comfortably


between the vices of deficiency
and excess
That’s fucking Christ
that, and
clean drinking water for everybody

- Christine Hall

listening to the song “water” by the rapper ugly god

water
water
water
water

water
water
water
water

water
water
water
water

water
water
water
water

- M; Margo
If the Mangroves Can Do It

The guide hands them fat squares of watermelon on little


skewers. Some days, it’s pineapple or guava, but today it’s
watermelon, ripe and bloated, still carrying its seeds. Usually,
the guides deseed the watermelon for the tour groups, but last
night was a blur of Singha and Pok Deng, so today the tourists
eat the watermelon the natural way: dotted with black, the way
it came out of the ground.

Nighttime is lovely on the edge of the mangrove forest, so cool


and quiet, and because it’s the guides’ only time to rest, it
seems a waste to just sleep through it. No one is interested in
kayak tours by moonlight​; even first-timers on the island know
that, after dark, the forest belongs to the snakes.

Cassie has the overwhelming urge to take the guide’s plate of


watermelon and throw it into the river. The color reminds her
of the accent wall in the living room back home that they
planned but never ended up painting. She remembers bringing
swatches from the hardware store and fanning them out on the
coffee table. Henry laughed, saying they were getting too
domestic, and they split the paint swatches into piles and
played them like a game of cards. Do you have carmine? No, do
you have red poppy? On cold nights, she liked to tuck her feet
into the backs of his knees. Do you have vermilion? Go fish.

Cassie and Henry are on vacation and trying to be the best


on-vacation versions of themselves: Cassie less worried about
schedules, Henry more generous with tips. Still, after two
weeks on the island, they’re ready to admit they have had
enough of each other. That having had enough of each other
has nothing to do with the vacation, they’re not yet ready to
admit. It’s easier to blame it on the mosquitoes or the sunburns
or the stale hotel rooms or the traveler’s diarrhea or the
homesickness for their dog.
While the tourists eat and apply sunscreen, the guides discuss
the impending storm. Every few years, a bad storm hits the
island, drowning animals and causing landslides that pull
buildings off their foundations. At such times, the residents
pack what they can and go deep into the mangrove forests,
where the trees’ roots grow so dense that they hold the ground
together; they hold on so tight that they keep the rivers in
place.

The guide collects the empty skewers from the group and
begins handing out life jackets and paddles. The couple next to
Cassie kisses frequently and speaks quietly in French. When
they get their life jackets, the man helps the woman strap into
hers, and then the woman does the same. She buckles the front
closed gingerly, making sure to first brush his chest hair out of
the way. Henry accepts a life jacket from the guide but waves
off the attempt to take his watermelon skewer. Instead, he
clamps his teeth down around it and starts chewing with force.

Cassie climbs into the back of the kayak. They have already had
the fight about the back of the kayak, on an open water paddle
arranged by their hotel concierge off the island’s north shore.
On that occasion, Henry had insisted he should be the one to
steer; he was heavier, for one thing. Cassie reminded him that
he had never been kayaking, and she went to that summer
camp where they had no programming budget so they made
the kids paddle canoes back and forth across the lake all day.
Henry hissed: Why was she always emasculating him in front
of other people? Now he grinds the skewer between his teeth
as he moves to the front seat, not bothering to look in her
direction.

The group, spread out across five kayaks, paddles across the
river toward the mouth of the mangrove forest. Someone yells
“Speedboat!” and Cassie spins her head around, listening for
the sound of a motor—but it’s just one of the kayaks
challenging another to a race, and the people inside drag their
paddles as hard and fast as they can, giggling, sending up
eruptions of water.

When they reach the forest, the guide tells them to get in single
file: The channels are narrow here with monkeys sitting on
either side, and if you’re not careful, they’ll reach into your
kayak and steal that camera you have tried to waterproof by
putting it inside a Ziploc bag. The monkeys are sneaky, says the
guide, but it’s only because they have had to learn how not to
die. They live high in the trees surrounded by seawater they
cannot drink. Their only source of freshwater is the
mangroves, which, for their own survival, filter out most of the
salt. When the monkeys come down, it’s to suck the water from
the mangrove roots. The guide says the monkeys look so
desperate at these moments that people joke they must be in
love.

Along the west shore, the water is so shallow that you can walk
fifty, sixty, one hundred feet into the ocean and still be dry
above your knees. On one of their first mornings, Cassie
watched from the shore as Henry disappeared into the
distance, eventually a tiny speck recognizable only by his red
board shorts. She found herself thinking, why isn’t the water
level changing, how can he keep walking, why, why, why?
When he reached the buoys indicating the steep drop-off of the
ocean floor ahead, Henry turned around and waved. She waved
back, a big thought growing bigger within her, until he started
his return.

On the tour of the mangroves, Cassie and Henry are the first
kayak to get to the waterfall, but they’re not particularly fast
paddlers; it’s only because they forgot to stop to take pictures.
Once everyone gets there, the guide has them dock and come
up onto the clearing, where they circle around the rotting
carcass of a crab.
He explains, everyone in the mangrove forests eats the crabs:
the people, the monkeys, the crocodiles, even the snakes. The
crabs only eat the fish, but of course, everyone else eats the fish
as well. It’s not a good deal for the crabs, but what can you do?
The guide says he tried eating a lizard once, grilled whole and
chopped up and served in a paper cone, from a street vendor at
the island center. Chopped up, bones and all. It was a bad
feeling, he says, having to pick all those bones from between
his teeth. Crabs are easier to deal with. A crab wears its
skeleton on the outside; you can take it right off.

The guide uses his paddle to scoop up a mound of dirt and


spread it over the crab’s upturned body: as good a funeral as
any forest dweller can hope for. As he pats the soil gently over
its white belly, Cassie feels the first raindrop hit the back of her
neck.

- Kristina Ten
New Glasgow

We never ate the scales


of the fish, just the entrails

or what father called vestigial—


the single-use components.

The scales would suck


you in, holographic walls

like Rome rebooted bleeding


up your cranial cob.

Impenetrable we thought them,


saved them for the ospreys

for it felt wrong to eat


such lustre, something

so reflective, so undecided
on what world it was in—

like we’d be taking a bite


out of extant waters.

- Thomas L. Winters
Ode to Modafinil

I thought of being able to


that's it that's the poem

- D. Ted Tarnovski

The Cotton Mouth Dynasty

In Pasadena we suffered endless front lawn sprinkler systems


dampening the same hand me down outfits we wore every
single day in dollar store menu poverty on our walk to the bus
we rode for an hour to reach the dull-witted suburbs below Mt.
Baldy where Leonard Cohen hid with the Buddhist monks for a
year, during which time he wrote poems in a vow of silence
and it rained outside Los Angeles County Jail the week after he
died and Donald Trump was elected out worst nightmare as I
walk down my uncle's midnight neighborhood street where
the sprinklers squirt drops of wasted water during a drought
that painted the dry waste land scenery the color and density
of an enormous territorial fossil infested with thirsty survivors
of death on the ghost town streets of a world dried out by a
storm of resentment and the decorated soldiers of the
imaginary army of dehydrated artists.

- Kevin Ridgeway
“beach resort".

i scraped my Achilles on a cement stair

and warmed it by the water heater

blood burns

and bones splinter like birch

i don’t even notice when it’s the weekend anymore

i’m still recovering from vacation

where the hot tub went unused

i have accepted that a vacation will never be

actually

relaxing

because it takes so long to adapt

and then you do

and then you’re gone

- Sierra Ventura
Placeholder interstitials.

Water has memory


Indeed we are mostly made
Of water we’re children
who wade still
All of us
Most of us
Any of us
Who am I and
You the you
I used to be me and
Now I’m not you
Who cast the first stone
And made a mold of it
Cast it in bronze
For posterity’s sake
Gimme a break!
Oh, no, you didn’t!
Bitch please!
Of course you’d say that
I’m thinking of the time
We debated the merits of
Jeff Koons and I told you

How he called up my hero,


Richard P. Feynman for advice
On how to get a now famous
Piece right, he asked just how
Exactly how do you get a regulation
Basketball to float just right?
Neither here nor there,
There,
So there,
Is the question soon answered:
A highly pure reagent was
Needed and I wasn’t,
No, not anymore,
And goodbye takes many forms:
Vapor/water/fog ghosting that
Reportedly never happened
But very well could have and
I still wonder how any of this

happened and am still


Amazed you changed my
Life this way,
Helped me finally see
how little I came
And just how far I had to go
The double entendre was
Unintentional but strangely appropriate and
The water is being layered now,

The heavier salt water


Sat at the bottom of the tank
While the lighter fresh water
Rested on top,
It worked!
But there’s a but!
Oh, yes!
There usually is.
Hey now.
This is a thing man,
It is really is,
The cap it hasn’t been met

LIVE MUSIC
Was the sign on my ex-girlfriend’s apartment wall, my
dyslexic heart overwrote
My minds initial
Reading rewrote as
MUSIC LIVE, you
Laughed and
Said you do the same thing
Usually
I’m remembering that as I get
The best overall time backboarding at the
Lifeguard competition
44 seconds, I didn’t get the best time though,
that was 43 seconds,
it’s funny how one second
is all it takes for an old memory to come into view
And remind you that the past isn’t as bad as you once told
yourself.

- Theo Konrad Auer


woes before bros

how to log off from this disillusionment never was i your good
girl, not your fresh-faced fucking angel wrapped in velcro
never was my flower your well-placed mouth guard taste these
fists instead i was always soft but contrary to your beliefs
never was i weaponless or helpless underneath the weight of
your words you hoped that would drown me a body you hoped
would be weightless sinking to the bottom of your man-made
lake my body was never a vacancy and my vulnerability was
never meant as an invitation to soothe your shame soaked soul
to sleep but i always nodded yes trembled like the moon-lit sky
still I was hesitant to speak up when my dress was clenched in
my hands and i am still thinking of ways constantly to unlearn
what was us burying these memories in fields i wish we hadn't
laid in i am not your pretty wet-dream so pull your limbs back
into their sockets before you use them on me the fluorescent
sign hung on the door says never touch me again and i couldn't
be more sure this time around when i say you are not ever
welcomed here again

- Bianca Ni​ñ​o
 
 
A Moment

I’m ten years old and bored out of my mind.


It’s Memorial Day weekend. I have five days away from
school and one of them is being spent on the old dock of my
great-great aunt’s house.
My mother explained the itinerary well enough- my
great-great aunt absconded to the coast after running a cold
industrial bus service in Newark. Most of her family left her
alone, the only people that cared to visit her being my
grandmother, my mother, my brother, and me. I can’t say that
my brother and I contributed much. My great-great aunt was
as cold as the channel water moving underneath me. I wonder
if she can even get out and see this view anymore, as she is
dependent on walking aids.
I can’t understand why someone would leave a city,
where there are people around every corner, for a secluded,
underdeveloped strip of land along the Jersey shore. Why
would such a strong woman choose a life of solitude? The only
contact she makes most of the time is the renter on the second
floor, a divorcee with a daughter that visits occasionally.
But I’m not going to ask her that. I am ten years old and
terrified of her. So I watch the water roll along the pilings,
trying to count the barnacles that are exposed.
I hear the sliding door open and I turn around to see my
mother. Thankfully, all she has is some stale bread in her hand,
telling me, “Your aunt said you should feed the ducks.”
I’m relieved, grabbing a piece from it and balling the
crust in my hand.

- Donnie Martino
TFW you have to make a decision

I'm foaming at the mouth


It tastes delicious it tastes like a root beer float
I'm barking up the wrong tree I just want to talk
I'm nocturnal but I'm wandering around in the daylight
I never knew it could feel so warm
I'm trying to drink from a puddle but my eyes can't focus I'm
knocking my head against the sidewalk
I'm snapping my jaws
I want to go to bed
I don't want to hurt you but I'm out of control

- Maggie Grabmeier
Dolphin

Shelby didn’t see a dolphin in the pool. That pissed her off.
Shelby spent fifteen of her wishes in the last week on a dolphin.
Any dolphin. To start living in the pool of her apartment
building.

Shelby lived on the third floor with her mother and brother.
She decided to spend one more wish on a dolphin. She closed
her eyes said, "I'm going to walk down all three flights of stairs.
And when I get to the bottom there better be a dolphin
swimming in the pool. And it better be a girl dolphin. And she
better squirt out of her blowhole at me. Because she is happy
to see me. Because I wished her into the pool. That's my wish."
Then Shelby looked at the air in front of her face. Waited for
the air that held her wish to swoosh away to wherever wishes
go after you say them.

When Shelby reached the ground she didn't see a dolphin in


the pool. Instead, she found two women, Mala and Rachel,
sitting in the only chairs beside the pool. The women wore
sunglasses and talked to each other. They did not see Shelby
until she interrupted them. “Did you see a dolphin here?” She
asked them. Both of the women shook their heads. Mala asked.
“Do you mean an inflatable? To play in the pool? Maybe
maintenance has taken it. Maybe it is in the lost and found.”
Shelby said, “Not an inflatable dolphin. A real dolphin. An
animal.” The women laughed. This pissed Shelby off even more.
Shelby spoke again. “It’s not funny. Dolphins are real animals.
And I have done everything I can possibly do to bring one to
this pool. I have used all my wishes this week, and I even
borrowed some from next week, to ask for a dolphin to live
here. In this pool. And be my friend. And I’ll be the only person
the dolphin talks to. Not you old people.” Both of the women
flinched when Shelby called them old.

Mala said to Shelby, “This pool is too small for a dolphin to live
in. It would be cruel. The dolphin wouldn’t be able to swim and
jump around.” Rachel added. “This water is full of chemicals.
It’s not the right water at all for a dolphin. It would die here. It
would be like if you or I swam in a bathtub full of poison.”

The women pissed Shelby off more. It came to her then. The
women were witches. Witches that cast an anti-dolphin spell
on the pool. Shelby couldn’t figure out why the women wanted
to keep dolphins away. She decided the only way to beat a spell
was to use a spell. Not a wish. Shelby said to the women, “Fine,
go ahead and cast your spells. But I’m going to find a stronger
spell than what you’ve got. And I’m going to bring a dolphin
here. And the dolphin will talk to me. In english.” Shelby ran
away from the pool and up the stairs to her apartment.

Mala put down her phone. She wanted to share a photo of her
while she swam with a dolphin. It was taken during a little
touristy thing she did while on vacation with her father after
his third divorce. She hoped it might make the girl envious.
Rachel liked Shelby. She thought it would be a fun to let little
girl’s dolphin spell work. And let a dolphin appear in the pool
for an afternoon. A dolphin that could survive within the pool
water. Or water that wouldn't poison the dolphin. Rachel could
work out that detail later. She thought it would be fun to let the
dolphin speak a bit of english as well. But only obscure words.
Words she’d need to take the time to search for and find within
a dictionary.

- Chad Redden
Preparations

I am only as significant as my last major accomplishment,


a small boat made of repurposed metal
my friend gave me when he moved out.
I will never see my friend again. Before he left
he told me that his life was not important.
Then he left, and he still leaves. The boat
fits my paper materials to the left in a small box.
I loved my friend the way a seal might love
a river's beach that it grew up along before it got washed out.
A strand jutted into the water’s lifted throat. The seal
does not know what its emotions are, cannot quantify its sense
of self
with such relationships or brief accomplishments. The boat’s
secondary bench hits my knees
and makes a forgivable crease. The small box
also holds money. Weak seal, bald and full of flawed moods.
Administering it into the river, it doesn’t sink. Condensed
and self-important. Honestly mostly muscle.

- Jonathan Aprea
Here is a Picture of Me Minding My Manners Earlier Today

I am the water fowl, the one with the pointy beak (the horny,
projecting jaw). In fact, I’m the water fowl with two pointy
beaks, one on either side of my head. I have two pairs of eyes
as well.

My two sets, each comprised of one beak and two eyes, are
more or less symmetrical. As I wriggle and dawdle through
water and grass, each set informs the other of the view from
the opposite side of my head.

Sound travels just fine between the two sides of my head,


although I must take care not to interrupt myself. But despite
my best efforts, I do interrupt myself, quite regularly. My four
eyes have so much to see, and my two beaks have so much to
report, and, as a result, one is often speaking over the other.

That’s when I have to remind my beaks and my eyes to please


mind their manners, otherwise I will never know what is
behind or in front of me.

- Is Sullivan
AMPHIPATHIC

Our love is amphipathic.


That is to say;
hydrophilic and hydrophobic
all at once.
Your oil to my water;
we attract, we repel.
You're a mercenary,
and I rebel.
We both function
with the intent of self-preservation
but I fight, and you fix.
I pull, and we mix.
an ocean of land betwixt
thousands of miles do part.
we spell and sew stories
to keep us in mind and heart.
molecules slipping and sliding
ever crashing, colliding
but never to fall static
heed the word
should this turn graphic
and lead us not to evaporate
but deliver us from this liquid state

- Rhea Smith
Very Human Aquarium

So there’s this couple living together in a little house and one


day a pipe breaks. Water begins gushing all over the kitchen,
and then into the dining room, the living room, the bedroom,
the bathroom. Soaking the carpet and the bottom of the legs of
all of their furniture, but the couple doesn’t do anything. They
just stay there sitting on the couch, holding hands with the
television on as the water begins to rise higher and higher.
They don’t look at each other, they don’t move, they just sit
there as all of their possessions, framed photos, that Keurig
machine the husband’s mother gave them for Christmas, all
these things get swept up into these great flooding waters.
Now up to their knees. It’s like some strange Edward Hopper
painting, but underwater. They just keep staring at the
now-fuzzy television, and the water keeps rising; coffee tables,
their marital bed, dressers, all completely underwater. They
just sit there not moving. Fish flutter through the water, the
married couple nothing more than some strange décor in this
very human aquarium. The human beings no more than a
decorative castle to the fish. Plastic seaweeds. The water up to
their necks, the fish swimming onward, and the couple says
nothing. Items floating around the house with undetermined
destinations, the sunlight outside beaming in, the couple still
sits in this dollhouse. In this giant diorama of a moment. The
fish begin to talk to each other. “Strange…” says one fish.
Another fish, a metaphysical fish went on a rant about how it
reminded them of the Tower card in Tarot. Another fish says
nothing at all but just swims circles around their human heads,
now completely covered in water, and then the fish keep
swimming, into the crevices behind the fridge, into the open
bathroom medicine cabinet and one fish in particular just
stares out the window, saying again “strange…” This all
happened on March 28th, 2018 in Englewood, Colorado, but
the fish didn’t know that. They were just fish after all,
consumed by their fish dreams and fantasies. They didn’t think
to ask how they ended up here or why these plastic ornaments
in the water were here with them. They didn’t think about any
of that. They just swam around, searching for food, and
sometimes whispering “strange…” under their breaths,
oblivious to life outside of them.

- Brice Maiurro

Three Questions on Subatomic Movement

Is water aware of its own holiness:


the perfect wake
on an unrefined surface
where you become an interlude,
a slight puddle of your former self?

Is the hand aware of its own reaching:


the careful elongation
toward common innards
where it becomes particles,
a fine sheath of skindust?

Whose footsteps are those


scurrying toward the inception?

- Seth Berg
Yukon

In Alaska, red-throated cranes peck for gold


Crusty, mudded, jacked-up backs
Sagging hoodies, rat tails, mesh hats
Feathers tailed, a dramatized poverty

Sinking into the old brown couch


Speckled with ancient maize and roommate nail clippings
Here to watch you watching them

Curious about your underground


Harrowing machinery breakdowns
The narrative device of struggle, and
I too am ensnared, caught in the meshes

Jackpot veins splinter through quartz


No need for mining, we have hydraulics
Route a river through a small ravine
Trommel, recirculate the materials

Reveal the prospects of your desire


Whether tender gravity can hold you
Crying in the shower is bathing twice
But the sluice boxes are busted

Impending winter, slow drips in a cave


Crack it open, erode calcified feelings
Leach your intent with cyanide tears
The color of iron oxidizing in crystal

The fever of being with you


A chance at paydirt, a land grant
Perched on one leg in a wilderness
I shiver, not knowing where I stand

- Cordelia Morgan
 
Man Shot, Killed in Oakland

When you took your usual route home,


verdant trail even in the witching hour,
did the Indian summer take you back
to the flat, grey, streets of the motherland,
where air thick with fruit flies and smog
violently clashed with the effluvium of hope
wafting across from the unknown shores?

When you stepped off the usual curb,


cracked and crumbling with wear,
did the descent into black call
gaps between sticky vines and leaves,
forward in your mind’s eye
in place of the fading beige lines
of the crosswalk shepherding you forward?

When the car crept swiftly behind,


slow, silent, over your shoulder,
did the sound of the screeching brakes
and tires pawing pavement and trash,
drown out to the hums of tricycles,
the calls of jeepneys and caribou,
instead of the chambers clicking?

When you turned around and saw


the barrels of guns poised at the ready
did you drift to thoughts of flight
sprinting through rice fields out of reach,
out of range, out of sight, out of country,
where the war cannot touch you,
to safety, to freedom, to America?

When you felt the shells’ fatal course


carving, piercing through your chest,
did your body register the pain
your mind and senses overwhelmed
by the drastic intrusion of the end
or were our likenesses conjured before you
to ease the ails from this final journey?

And when you realized you were so close


to home,
to 39th Street,
to Mindanao and Tanay,
to Rolling Hills,
did you use your vibrant tongue
to do more than beg for help that never came?

Oh and when you kept calling out into the night,


pleading for anyone to answer your prayers,
while neighbors kept their blinds and doors shut,
ignoring your whimpering and sobbing,
pretending your last words were nothing more
than a nightmare terrorizing their repose,
did your voice fade at the same rate as your life?

Because we stopped saying your name aloud


and your gaiety has been devoured by tragedy
and you’re yellowing faster than your photographs
and your son looks more and more like you every day
and your daughter’s muted eyes are still lined with sorrow
and your blood was power sprayed away into the gutters
and your voice has decrescendoed and dissipated into nothing
and our memories are failing you,

So please, tell us,


despite it all,
did you return to the Philippines one last time,
just like we all have said we’ll do,
before we die?

- Joanna Anabo
BIOS

Bianca Niño​ is a latinx ghost girl that resides in tx and writes sometimes
and sleeps often, is soft but not weaponless. chips and salsa.

Brice Maiurro​ is a writer and poet from Denver, CO. His favorite party food
is Totino's Party Pizzas, before they made them square.

Chad Redden​. Bloomington, IN. pretzel sticks or twists.

Performance poet ​Christine Hall ​was raised in a trailer at the edge of the
Adirondacks by cultist pornographers and troubadours. Her favorite party
food is strawberry shortcake.

Cordelia Morgan ​is a writer living in the Bay Area and founding editor of
the Snackbar Collective press. Her favorite party food is raspberries.

Donnie Martino​ is a social studies teacher based out of New Jersey. His
favorite party food is salt and vinegar chips. He can be found on Wordpress
at donniedontblog and Twitter at dmisunbreakable.

Is Sullivan​ lives in Portland, OR. They tweet @phlgem and eat @parties
bagel bites.

Name:​ Joanna Anabo


Location: Oakland, CA
Favorite Party Food: Lumpia

Jonathan Aprea ​lives in Philadelphia. His favorite party food is hostess


orange cupcakes.

Kevin Ridgeway​ lives and writes in Long Beach, CA. His favorite party food
are party subs.

Kristina Ten ​is a Russian-American writer living in Oakland, California. Her


work can be found in b(OINK), Jellyfish Review, The Awl, Drunk in a
Midnight Choir, Pantheon Magazine, and elsewhere. She's totally a Virgo.
She also weaves tapestries. She loves her dog. Her favorite party food is a
really big bowl of guac.

Maggie Grabmeier​ is from San Francisco, California, and her favorite party
food is salt & vinegar chips. She plays guitar and sings in a pop punk band
called The Total Bettys.
M; Margo​ needs to drink more water.
 
San Francisco chewed up and spat out ​Rhea Smith​ into the suburbs of
California. Always trying to return, she writes about her experiences on the
streets, and in the ever cliché but oh-so-popular romance with a science
bled twist. Her favorite party food is simple; but chips and dip will please
anyone, you'd think.

Seth Berg​ lives in Minnesota and his favorite party food = spicy-ass chixken
wings.

My name is ​Sierra Ventura​ from Castro Valley, CA. My favorite party food
is an exciting cookie tray.

Ted Tarnovski​. Philadelphia/New Jersey. That kind of dip that's in a


hollowed out loaf of bread. Not pumpernickel. Drake approval face, french
bread, Drake disapproval face, pumpernickel. I mean I guess the dip is the
same without the bread bowl, but like, no. It's not the same. It's a distinct
goodness. It's metaphysical. The bread bowl, things happen in there I can't
know.

My name is ​Theo Konrad Auer​. I'm from Oakland, California and I like
salsa.

Thomas L. Winters​ broods and writes in Ontario. He'll likely show up at


the party with spanakopita and a batch of chocolate-coated pretzels.

Thank you for reading be about it zine #15. Please check us out online! We
like to tweet sometimes at @baipress and we sometimes update our tumblr
with new poetry.

Submit to the next be about it zine #16 at ​zinebeaboutit@gmail.com​. Send us


something short and sweet. The theme is ​EXPERIMENT​.

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