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a’misa chiu

a’misa chiu
dedicated to our co-conspirators of pleasure

If you liked Jan Svankmajer’s films,

you might also like the stop-motion
documentary Monster Road.
a’misa chiu

-make bed
-zine fiend
-find nearby bike cafe
-silhouettes & shadows
-housepaint nail polish
-disco & freeze tag
-salton sea & salty seeds
-thought trains on memory’s back
-Derrida’s Ghost & ghosts in general
-hypertext & links
-cats eating rainbow-sprinkled donuts
-bell peppers & gender
-salvation & thrift store styling
-spirals and seashells
-busrides abortions & macrame
-siamese twins
-exorcism & outliers
-glow in the dark bunnies
-duck salad & rubber duckies
-90’s lifestyle
-homegrown herb
-screamo & beano
-woven tophats
-catarthic release
-mutes and salami
-thank you cards
-wipe, flush.
-take a bow
-wake up
theo ellsworth
theo ellsworth
keenan keller
keenan keller
keenan keller
keenan keller
The Cup is Full
writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa
writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa
writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa
writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa
albane simon
albane simon
Janice Lee

Don't pay attention to me, I'm just a whisper in the dark, the sunset bending behind us.
Father, when you watch over us during the night, what do you dream about?

So what if the tuna fish wants to make love to the shark? How does this courtship work, in
the absence of cultural expectations, who asks who, whose permission needs to be asked? Mr.
Toona, I would like to ask for the hand of your daughter. A response: But you're a shark. How long
does such a courtship last? And how long before the rigor mortis starts to set in?

Proust once said, "Now that Olympus does not exist, its inhabitants dwell upon the earth."
You, me, him, her, the lost gods of a lost era. If I am a god, you are a god. If He is a god, I am one

The octopus stuck in the bottle is smarter than you. His eyeball burps, and one wonders,
while gazing into the optical illusion that makes up an optic system, why award such superior
vision to inferior species? If He is an intelligent creator, why build something upside down
and backwards? It's safer, cleaner. In reality I remember little about myself, only random lines
on the road my feet tread upon when I was really looking up at the sky. I'm on the brink of

The light forever of the sun that fades away when the ancient ones awake. Dreams are closer
to the real than one thinks, the logic of this world skewed, falsely multi-dimensional when
really there's only one dimension that matters, the one we're only able to access when the
ghosts peel our eyes closed and remind us of the past events we so viciously try to tuck away.
Memories consolidated and reconsolidated so many times, I don't remember the faces of my
mother anymore. I can see a face, but the emotional state I'm in, it could really be any face,
every face looks like her face. Only dream-glimpses allow me to see her, but even in my
dreams there are obstacles. In one dream I saw her, but my brother held me back. It's omma, I
told him. She's not real. She's dead, remember? Don't touch her. That's not her. He grabbed my
hand, lead me up a stairway that led nowhere. We were running away from something, an
incoming fire perhaps. This city's always on the brink of burning down.

He is a castaway, the ever-arriving present envelops me. This course has become accustomed
to my presence, a premonition of a misty window, I see a red tree out there, but that species
isn't native to this area. I keep hearing certain phrases over and over again, and I don't see the
source, so it must be who's saying it. Ecclesiastes: "There is nothing new under the sun." And
what nothing are we talking about? What is the source? Of the sun? What is? The Word flies
at me and I try to catch it.

Replenish this and I will give you that. The entire neighborhood will. Dust to dust. I'm
compelled to remember things over and over again, even if that's not the way they happened,
that's what I see. It's come to the point, here on the brink of a mind, the mind ravenous like a
shark, it's come to that point where I only trust what I see in my dreams.
janice lee
tina tae
tina tae
tina tae
tina tae

call me bitter, but there’s no career in art.

it doesn’t make money, it’s not especially essential

(not like vitamins or running water)

but it’s sort of not fair that other niche interests can
make a buck out of what they like
and artists are trod on
like they’re a completely useless breed.

take the nyc service industry. i’ve worked the food

and retail fronts, and i guarantee that the high
of the staff are ‘artists paying dues.’

we’re a lovely bunch: bright, sparkling, polite to the

and we’re serving a room full of idiots.
lipstick bitches, sloppy assholes--they’re married
and expecting a spoiled brat in four months.

how do we engage these people in conversation?

oh, we talk about the weather.

they think we’re too dumb to do anything else.

and we’re puzzled how they find their dough with
zero lights on upstairs.

it’s really a mystery.

and we create our drawings, paintings, and half-
earnest rhyme
to *cleanse* the bad-feeling.

but come time, when the same customers come

back and we show them these works, will they

moral of the story: be nice to your struggling artists

because they will have their moment ;o)
tina tae
tina tae
jared konopitski
jared konopitski
teresa matsushima

She is black and white

See her clearly in a foggy mist,
She sees a world of do’s and don’ts
Values bend from right to wrong

Her mother, like rushing water through her life

Hot than cold
Her father absent, then present
Her heart holds love and hate

Sometimes she sips coffee, sometimes tea

Her children push and pull
her from bear hugs to arms length
Her husband once brittle, now more pliable.
teresa matsushima

In her mind, she accepts and condemns

In conflict, there is contention and restoration
She holds tightly to morals
yet finds herself in compromise
She needs help but asks for none

A dichotomous world
She is tit for tat
She is this or that
She is fight or flight
She is black and white.
a found object
a’misa chiu
randy nelson

The Train Tracks on Normandie Ave

The railroad tracks on Normandie Ave tell ghost stories.
I used to walk along them as a teenager.

One time,
I found a bullet from a semi automatic gun.
I picked it up
and threw it down on the rail.
It produced a long vibration that shook my knees,
and for a split second,
I heard Jordan Daily,
the old train conductor.

Chain smoking change in a time where menthol cigarettes didn’t exist.

“Times are a changing man.”

Steam was the only thing that made sense.

A locomotive push in the wrong direction.
“I sympathize with this city,” he said.
“The local hobos need a place of refuge and the train cars are beginning
to sound so silent without a blues harp soundtrack.”
randy nelson

“It’s starting to be replaced by cop sirens and automatic guns.

I thought God was suppose to protect us.”

I guess faith is a fickle thing.

“I dread the day that my phones rings

and I get a call from the coroner telling me my son was shot playing marbles by the train station.”
“He was shot by accident, they would say.”
“Wrong place, wrong time, right between his eyes”

Every fathers nightmare but some fathers reality.

“If he dies today,” Mr. Daily said,

“I’ll leave this business behind.”

The times of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are dead.

replaced by bullets by the rail road tracks.

“Tell me a ghost story,” his son said,

“one that would louder than any train whistle or engine.”

“Son, ghost stories are for grown ups,” he said.

“Stay being a kid.”
“Because these train tracks do tell ghost stories,
I just don’t want you to haunt them.”

alex chiu
alex chiu
alex chiu
alex chiu

a’misa chiu

theo ellsworth

keenan keller

vicky luu

yumi sakugawa

albane simon

janice lee

tina tae

teresa matsushima

jared konopitski

randy nelson

alex chiu

*title by mark matsushima

**no part of this publication may be reproduced without personal permissions from
respective artists, except for review purposes only.
Founded in 2008, by artists
A’misa & Alex Chiu, Eyeball Burp
is a cultural outlet that features
the nooks and crannies of the art

Eyeball Burp began as and still

is a small press publication,
xeroxed and hand distributed
throughout Southern California.

Building alongside fellow artists,

musicians, and thinkers, Eyeball
Burp also hosts and organizes a
variety of community events, art
shows, and workshops in the Los
Angeles area.

Finally, Eyeball Burp functions

as an active blog space expos-
ing thoughts, images, and ideas

/ 75
cover artist: tina tae
eyeball burp press

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