Illustration by Jaden Andrea

CONTRIBUTORS

Dragnet / 2Ravens / Bob Cohen / Michael Fasman / Dan Adams / Kate Estrop
Mark Andrew Heathcote / Rider / Chef Acerbic / Oryx & Rae / AARON
Mimi Eng / Darren Torpey / Javy Awan / Isabell VanMerlin / Baba Anandaji
Arlene Guerrero-Watanabe / Jeffrey La / Chris Colman / Raffi Kalani Smith
Steven “Two Scoops” Sohigian / Blind Margueritte (Lauren Dyt)

EDITORS

Ben Gray / Emilie Bza / Mildred Cady / Mimi Eng

LAYOUT BY MIMI ENG

 FLY HAY

Photo by Dragnet
BURNING MAN SIGN

WELCOME TO BURNINGMAN
By 2Ravens

A thin flame runs under my skin

―Sappho, Fragment 31

The sluiced gates of Black Rock

open to week-long 24/7 heaven:
Your own 7-eleven, but for free.
Yes, no cash ‘cept for ice and coffee.
Photos by Dragnet
I need this place where
sex perfumes the Dome―
Karma Sutra 69s DrugBuggery
as TinderBone does HelloSpark.
I binge on sin, blue-pill my thrills.

By dark I raise my arms in ecstacy,

trance dance and rave to EDM.
Strobes flash. Bodies pulse in heat.
The slush beat sanctifies me.

Late night we circle our temple,

set torch to tinder, burn it down.
We cheer as fiery tongues lurch to sky.
The grey whiff of smoke and ash
as orange embers drift apart.

Heat glares against my face,

face to face with the flame
that burns beneath my skin.
Smoke stings my eyes. I step back
a few paces into clear desert air.
Flat desert stretches into dark.

2 CHAIR AC
SHAVED BACK
Photo by Dragnet
BLACKROCK DANCING STYLES
By Dragnet

Pulsating music electrified through amps

Sonically Attracts
Eager dancers from camps
Recently hygienically
Spruced up with wipes
Out strutting their styles
Here are a few types:

HipE’s - more Molly smiles than actual body movement - just happy to be there - never met a burner they didn’t hug

Bobblers - only the head moves, chin tries to touch the chest with each bob sans shoulder movement — only able to turn head 180
degrees

Missionary - moves through the crowd working their way to be in the front row, often desiring too be seen on some social media
video post after the event

Equators - major movement goes east and west bending at the waist —- Born to sway

DistriKters - first thing they brag about upon returning to default world is how great it was out at DistriKt — highlight of the 3 days
they spent at BurningMan

Scoffers- congregate at perimeter of dancers critiquing dancers -— they are often found with an intoxicated friend with a
matching fanny pack

Hunters - often males, in pursuit of prey ———thinks that dancing is the soul ticket to connecting —- often pushy through crowd

ClankOns - metal cup and carabiners constantly banging — often met by polite stares seeking the source of the percussion……
reminiscent of pots banged by 5 year olds on new years eve

Rister - hand centric, recurring dreams of starring in a Bollywood music video —- high degree of range of motion with hinged
wrists

PoGoStickers - rarely spotted in this EDM genre, Moshing Wannabes - more common to Coachella out at the Hermosa stage —
circular Group jogging, only able to turn left

ICandy - sometimes ICarly - live for that warm and fuzzy feeling they get when DJ makes eye contact with them — followed
immediately with a look to their neighbor saying - did you see that!

Foot Soldier - defines their territory in crowded areas … protecting against all marauders and wayward shoulder incursions…
The feet repeat a pattern of forming a quadrilateral claiming their turf (or dust)

Realtors - mark their dancing perimeter with their backpacks and bags on the ground - invites a different type of “tripping” -
similar to Foot Soldiers, different concept

Two and Tenners - aren’t aware that there are other things going on in BRC besides dancing at the sound camps — frequently
clothed in sparkly lighted outfits purchased in Empire

Cowboys and Cowgirls - always bring their ropes with them to dance - LED lighted - Amazon sourced - need a little room to twirl so
usually found near outer layer of people - more about the luminescence than the dance moves - often quite a nice light flow show
BLACKROCK DANCING STYLES
By Dragnet

Recyclers - go through a well practiced routine cycling every 46 seconds regardless of the music being played……often rotate 360°
to see who is admiring their routines

BloodHounds - follow and chase the Mayan Warrior and RoboHeart — pride themselves in knowing where they are actually camped
before they head out to the Playa - goal is to capture video (50 other people post same video on social media with better cameras)

AxeCessorers - goal is to show off accessories and costumes — lots of eye contact seeking verbal compliments on their playa
gear, popular with influencers and sparkle ponies — usually good looking couples with no camp or art project affiliation

Syncless - movements have little to do with the musical rhythms other dancers seem to be connecting with … thrusting body
around with no regard for rhythm

Cirque de Sashayers - mastered the technique of dancing without spilling a drop from their metallic playa drinking vessel or swag
cup they received from a corner bar with a guy on a small red and white megaphone imploring dudes to come in and have a shot

TubeMan SkyDancers - style of movement where arms sway back and forth above the head resembling those tall advertising
inflatable figures in front of businesses or at the keyhole at Center Camp in '23

WonPersenters - the lucky ones who flow gracefully and creatively with natural movements - the gifted and talented few - Dragnet
is not ever found among them

THE DANCE

Rider
GROOVE BABY GROOVE
By Bob Cohen

Soundtrack: “Pharoah’s Dance,” Miles Davis

Pharaoh’s Dance” energy. Groove baby groove. Stacatto. Ugh. Know the words. Can’t spell.
Know the words so phooey. That’s what editors are for. the letters and sounds. random symbols
and sounds. frequencies corresponding to areas of my brain, living in a consensus reality that is
no more real than the fantasies, the phanta seas upon which my conscious sails-swims. waves
driven by winds driven by heat driven by the sun acting on the. molecules and atoms increasing
and decreasing the vibrations within particles of the atoms emanating, radiating outward,
chameleoning

the shapes into substances, pretty, young zapftig readhead in my field of vision, right leg crossed over left, toe-tapping the air
to the beat of some imaginary song, or maybe stimulating her genitals grooving on pulses of her pussy she knows I’m looking at
her wonder what she thinks, objectivcation, fucking spelling, self-dobut does she recoil with an “ew” does she feel my energy, does
she know I’m observing her, consuming her being as I represent the reality of this moment. No chaos between me and the groove
as the saxophone soars above the groove in erratic flights and pulses, notes up and down, observing the. physics of harmony, all
within the harmonious segments of the musical

. . . chord centers,
stretch the distance,
pull the harmonies to
the breaking point,
let go. groove,
only groove,
only groove
groove holds the center,
groove and key area. painting with
jazz-rock-funk tones with brushes made of
drums and bass and stings, no strings, loud and
fast now slow and pausing for breath. electric piano,

zapftig sadie collects her things, inspects the artwork

on the walls shuffles through hand-made greeting cards
and pen and ink drawings of cute animals, casts a furtive glance
in my direction when is a connection not a connection, pretending-studied
ignoring can’t won’t don’t touch me don’t really care observing me absorbing
the tapestry of the moe-ment from the other side of the room through another set of
eyes-consciousness karmic circling and a new connection made to be renewed at another
time, the Pharaoh dances round the maypole and the mulberry bush and the the 1369’s green-gray
carpet in and out and around the people-space redolent of the energetic impression left by Leah
while the bitches kindle a fire to boil their brew in desiccated, decaying reberb bouncing off the walls of my ears
in clarion trumpet calls as an asian woman in skin tight shorts shares the outline of her pussy as she walks by when
is objectivication not objectivication fuck why can’t I remember how to spell that word asks Miles snapping fingers
calling for a shift in tempo I feel the urge to look it up or ask spell check but now, let the sounds reverberate and decay
on the wally-wwailing walls inside my head, tempo-temperature higher-faster, louder played with aggression.

In hale
ex hale
brea the.
Photo by Dragnet

FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM

By Michael Fasman

With our Ship orbiting the planet in cloaked mode our shuttlecraft took flight, entered the atmosphere, and descended over what
had been previously scouted and identified to be a barren desert, extremely remote from any inhabited areas. The expanse, an
immense dry lakebed, was the ideal staging area for our current anthropological survey of the nascent civilization, termed ‘human,’
on a planet far from the rest of inhabited galactic space.

As we neared the surface the lights of a small bustling municipality inexplicably appeared in view, forcing us to abort our landing
and hover. This was inconceivable! The city wasn’t there on our last scout, which occurred very recently, during the planet’s
current solar rotation (colloquially known as a “year”). In the thousands of years our scientists had been observing this secluded
planet we’d never observed the preeminent species building such a large metropolis so quickly. This find was unprecedented and
had to be investigated. We were ecstatic to be on the cusp of a major scientific discovery!

We made the craft invisible, landed on the far outskirt of the city, and began preparations to study the inhabitants without, of
course, revealing our presence. Suddenly the invisibility shield failed, revealing our tetradecagon shaped craft. It was a
catastrophe! Humans had never knowingly interacted with extraterrestrials, a 15-sided glowing starship shuttle would be a
terrifying First Contact. To make matters worse, our engines weren’t designed for near habitation lift-off, so we were grounded for
as long as anyone was in the area.

The Captain called the senior staff together.

“How are we to handle our ship being discovered before the invisibility shield can be repaired?”, he asked.

“Let’s detonate a small thermonuclear device to ensure no living being has the chance to see us”, the military liaison replied.

This was met by derision by the chief anthropologist.

FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

“We can’t do that you idiot, we’re here to study, not obliterate, the inhabitants. Keep in mind “aliens” have been a part of this world’s
mythologies since our first ship visited, several millennia ago. Let’s just hope this sighting is construed as a fable and dismissed as
another illusion if any human recounts meeting us.”

The senior exolinguist piped up.

“Are you forgetting our replication suits? They can imitate every known life form. We have an extensive image and language
database of this world’s population. We’ve mingled among the populace since they discovered the wheel. Everyone put on your R-
suit, select a human body type and the local language, and prepare to meet the City’s residents. We’ll think up some story about our
shuttlecraft before anyone comes out this far.”

Just then a faint voice was heard from outside.

“Hey in there, is your camp open?”

The shuttlecraft’s AI scanned the individual standing at our airlock.

“Male human, approximately 60 years old, no signs of weapons, biometrics standard, .02% alcohol and trace amounts of other
substances in bloodstream. Threat assessment insignificant.”

The Captain hurriedly set his R-suit to human form. He bravely walked to the main hatch and opened it just enough for a greeting.

“Ohiyo gozaimus” he said to the male, known as a ‘man’ on this world.

“Excuse me?” the man exclaimed as he looked at the Captain.

The R-suit’s translator immediately switched languages. “Good day” he tried again.

“Howdy” the man replied, “You guys have an awesome camp, how did you get it setup so early?”

“Thank you but we’re closed now”, the Captain said. “Go away and come back tomorrow.”

The human was taken aback.

“Whoa, that’s not cool, are you one of those uptight, bouncer protected, rich kid glam camps? Not Ten Principled.”

At this point anyone would have been confused as how to proceed, but the Captain had not only met dozens of primitive species
but was great at improvising.

“This is our first time here, would you show us around your fine town?” the Captain said, indicating the chief anthropologist, the
senior documentarian and Security Unit One, our android soldier.

The man appeared nervous.

“I’m not so sure, I don’t know you at all.”

In vocal tones proven to placate humans the Captain said “You have nothing to fear, we’re here to explore and become familiar
with your City.”

“Well, you seem ok, I guess I’ll give you newbies a tour. This is my third burn so I’m kind of an expert. My name’s Oddball. It’s really
Roger, but I’m known as Oddball. Guess that’s on account of I don’t fit in with most people. I’m kind of here by myself” he said.
FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

“Oddball, it would be an honor to be escorted by one such as knowledgeable as yourself.”

Oddball relaxed and smiled, which made our expedition easier. We’d dealt with angry species; it hampered our analyses.

“What’s your name?” Oddball asked.

“Captain” the Captain replied.

“Great” replied Oddball, “just arrived and already have a playa name. I can’t quite figure out why but it suits you.”

We’d each adopted different human appearances based on our favorite characters from this world's electronic media. Our Ship
contained every transmission beamed into space since the beginning of the planet’s Radio Age, and we’d filled countless intervals
traveling through space watching recordings. The Captain had chosen Kirk from ‘Star Trek’, the anthropologist looked
like Anita from ‘West Side Story’ and the documentarian the Wizard from “The Wizard of Oz”. Our battle-hardened security android
SU1 molded itself to be Yu Shu Lien from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.”

“OK, let’s check out the City.” Oddball continued “Grab your bikes.”

“Bikes” said the Captain “Ah, we don’t have ‘bikes’.”

“Newbies, typical. It’s a long walk to the Man but I’m into it. Gotta hand it to you” Oddball continued, “you’re an unusual group. Latina
ladies in fancy dress, older guys in Victorian garb, Oriental warrior women and, this may sound weird, but a guy who looks like he’s
from a 60’s science fiction show. Where’s your camp from?”

“Far away” the Captain replied, “you wouldn’t know it.”

Oddball shifted his attention to Security Unit One.

“Who are you, my lovely new friend?”

“Sec-U-One” the android replied.

“Interesting name but whatever. Where will you be dancing your Seckuone-self tonight?”

“We remain inside our transport at night” SU1 answered.

“What a bummer” responded Oddball, “Can I come by later and bring you to the Mayan Warrior? It’s a wild scene!”

“Let’s see how today progresses” SU1 countered.

Our expeditionary force, with Oddball Roger in the lead, walked across the desert sand. We were quickly covered in fine particulate
matter, which had the potential to clog our breathing systems.

“Oddball” the Captain called “how do you breathe in this fine particulate matter?”

“Playa dust sucks, doesn’t it?” he answered. “You need masks or bandanas. See, mine’s from Temple Guardians 2018!”.

We continued walking when three humans on bipedal apparatus, evidently ‘bikes’, appeared.

Security Unit One went into high alert.

FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

“Camp?”

“Ya, the name of your group”

“We’re...Visitors From Afar” the quick-witted Captain replied.

“Cool camp name” said one of the biked humans “but with these dust storms you need to cover your faces. Luckily for you we have
extra bandanas, take some.” He handed a cloth square to each the crew, then turned to SU1 and asked ”Can I give you a hug”?

SU1 hesitated, glancing at the Captain who nodded.

“Yes you may embrace” SU1 intoned, while deactivating its perimeter stun field and plasma weapons. It accepted the male
wrapping his arms around it. I may be attributing a machine emotional capability, but I swear SU1 enjoyed the experience.

Oddball smiled “Playa gifts right from the start! Nothing better, and from Census no less.

Awesome!”

“Thank you, kind humans” the documentarian answered, astounded by their uncharacteristic generosity. The Captain gave him a
stern look for speaking out of turn. Documentarians are to observe and record, not to interact with our subjects.

“We live to gift!” one of the bikers replied. “I’m Scribble, this is Ruby Laser Jules and he’s Pedro. See ya around!”

“Aren’t burners the best?” Oddball grinned. He then explained that peculiar idiom.

We continued our journey, studying and documenting the vast number of people and objects on the desert floor, and the wide-
ranging assortment of attire worn by the participants. Our anthropologist was especially intrigued as the previous record of such
an assortment of artistic artifacts and unusual garments in one location was a thousand years ago, thousands of miles to
the south. In that occurrence our science team accidently revealed their true forms, causing the local population to build massive
stone shrines in veneration.

As the sun began to set the documentarian’s replication suit suddenly failed, revealing his actual appearance. He and the crew
were mortified! He became his normal self: a sphere of swirling charged ectoplasm, pulsating in electromagnetic spectrums
visible and invisible to humans. He was committing the worst transgression imaginable, disclosing our superior evolution to these
primates. For the first time in a millennia of exploring this world the crew was frightened. How would these people react? Would it
cause panic and ruin our mission?

Oddball’s mouth dropped opened, his eyes went wide, and he ran towards the swirling radiances, pointing excitedly. Would this be
First Contact, before the human mind or society was ready?

Would it alter the course of their history? Would our crew be banished by the Council of Exoplanetary Anthropology from ever
exploring again?

“Those blinky lights are so groovy!” Oddball exclaimed. “How do you get all the batteries to stay on?” To further our alarm several
other humans approached.

“Best LEDs ever!” one of them called out “Where can I score some?”

The documentarian’s R-suit powered back on, to the crew’s great relief, and he reverted to the “Wizard” façade. Oddball shook his
head.
FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

“Typical crap from Amazon, never works for long out here. Onward!” We later realized that playa dust had interfered with the R-
suits systems.

As we continued towards the city center, we passed many intricate shapes in an extensive assortment of materials, styles and
sizes. The Captain pointed to a particularly fascinating creation which, to our amazement, resembled the predatory Hytheron
Dragon of Gamma Tau Eight. We dutifully captured an image, which is attached to this report*.

FACING THE FEAR BEAST

Art by Tigre Mashaal-Lively and Make Love Visible. Photo by Dan Adams

The Captain continued “Do all your cities contain such artifacts?”

“Nowhere like this place, awesome, aren’t they?” Oddball replied. “Some of these artists spend all year making these before
bringing them here, just to be seen for a week or two!”

“A week or two?” the Captain asked, puzzled.

“Of course, Burning Man only lasts a couple of weeks. They can’t stay here forever. Leave no trace!”

Our chief anthropologist consulted his galactic civilization reference database.

“Captain, with that information I’ve discovered our setting. We’re in a cultural gathering that occurs for a short period once a year.
The participants arrive from across the planet.”

“Totally!” intoned Oddball. “Burners from everywhere! Course most are from California and New York but that’s to be expected. Isn’t
cheap getting here you know.”

“We must continue to observe” the anthropologist continued, “as unobtrusively as possible.”

No, you can’t just be spectators. Everyone participates, Visitors From Afar included. When we get back to your camp after our tour
you have to show me what you bring to this community.”
FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

The expeditionary team looked at each other, trying to assimilate this new directive.

“Oh, you’ll be happily surprised” the Captain assured Oddball, to the obvious consternation of the rest of the crew.

The vast city spread around us in a semi-circle. The sun had set and even our accomplished crew, explorers of dozens of planets,
were delighted by the profusion of light and sound surrounding us.

“Reminds me of the fertility rites on Proxima Upsilon Six” our anthropologist exclaimed.

We approached an enormous man shaped effigy towering over the desert floor, standing on an ornate base.

“Burn the Man!” Oddball yelled, to an accompanying cheer by a nearby crowd.

“Are you going to destroy this sculpture now”? the Anthropologist asked.

“You’re a funny guy! It’s still four days until the Man burns.” laughed Oddball.

As the group continued towards the City center Oddball and SU1 walked closely together, in deep conversation.

“It’s strange” Oddball said, “I usually don’t get along with people so easily, but you seem different. Somehow more worldly, more
accepting.”

SU1’s programming, while focused on defense, had incorporated a compendium of human responses.

“Our team has been many places and met many inhabitants. You seem like a nice person.”

“Gosh, thanks.” Oddball blushed. “Older guys like me don’t hear that very often, especially from women like yourself”.

“Please clarify” SU1 responded.

Just as Oddball was about to reply an enormous vehicle filled with “burners” stopped next to us.

It emitted high lumen light and excessive decibel audio. A woman attempting to appear as a member of the Leporidae species of
the order Lagomorpha leaned out and yelled “The party’s on near the Trash Fence just pass Forest of Dreams. Hurry, get in, we’re
heading there!”

“Thank you, adorable bunny” Oddball replied, then turned to us and instructed “All aboard my newbie friends, time to disco!” He
looked at Security Unit 1 with a shy smile. “You’re my first dance, Seckuone.” SU1, emulating Oddball’s emotional state, smiled back
and nodded. We boarded the vessel, which gained speed with the throbbing bass increasing exponentially.

“Welcome to The Bounce Car Mutant Vehicle” the bunny said. They continued moving away from the city, surrounded by bicycles
and occasionally other similarly festive vehicles. Everyone on board was talking and laughing and bouncing. Oddball was in deep
conversation with SU1, their heads inches apart.

After a while the Bounce Car stopped, and everyone got out. We were in front of a structure bursting with dazzling lights and
sounds, including the low frequency repetitive audio we’d heard on the Bounce Car. There were several hundred humans gyrating
and cavorting around it.

“Welcome to Camp Visitors From Afar!” the Captain exclaimed. We looked closely at the structure. It was our very own shuttlecraft,
in a display mode we’d never seen before.

“The Chief Engineer followed my order to fit in with the surroundings. Job well done.”
FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

As we walked towards our “camp” we noticed several of the crew mingling with the revelers. They were really enjoying themselves,
the Chief Engineer among them.

“Exceptionally sociable species” she said, “With a well-developed capacity for sharing and immediacy.”

Our whole team joined the revelry, doing our best to mimic the raucous dancing. Oddball had his arms around SU1 as they bumped
bodies together. They were both having a wonderful time.

When the soundtrack changed to another melody he came back to us, hand in hand with SU1.

“You two seem to be getting along well” the Captain observed.

“This human is filled with tenderness” SU1 replied.

Oddball beamed. “Captain, you and your camp are the best! I don’t think I’ve ever felt as comfortable with strangers. Secuone
understands me better than anyone.”

“Thank you, Oddball. Your species, I mean, you people are easy to be with.”

“Can I visit your camp Secu? If the inside’s as awesome as the outside, it’ll be totally cool!”

SU1 hesitated, then, in a testament to its programming, replied “We have some very reserved people inside, they need their space.”

“Ah, got it, chill zone. I can relate to needing privacy.”

We continued our studies of this unique anthropological case for several days. Oddball came back often to get SU1 and show it
around. He was at ease with the android, and more at ease with others since being around the palliative influence of an intelligent
self-aware construct unfettered by preconceptions or bias.

We joined Oddball for the Man Burn, a spectacle of fire and noise and primal ritual. The entire city surrounded the Man, human
energy at maximum output. When the fire pageant began to wane we ventured out into the City, having experiences that would be
rigorously analyzed and deliberated at length by the Council of Exoplanetary Anthropology.

Eventually, as it does on every revolving planet, the sun rose over the horizon. Oddball and SU1 sat back-to-back next to the
shuttle, the first light of day illuminating their happy faces. For a security unit SU1 had integrated human mannerisms at an
unusually rapid pace.

The crew assembled outside. The Captain, now wearing a green fur covering, addressed them.

“The time has come for us to continue our explorations; we have enough data about this stage of sentient development on this
world. This last week has been revelatory, we didn’t know there were humans who could be open minded enough to accept us
unconditionally. We will return when the rest of their civilization has advanced to that level, then introduce humanity to the rest
of the galaxy.”

Security Unit One turned to Oddball, its face frowning, most unlike a military automaton.

“We must depart now. Our encounter was most memorable.”

Oddball was glum. “This is the worst thing about the Burn, leaving new friends. When can I see you again? Can I WhatsApp you after
we both get back to the default world?”

“That won’t be possible.” SU1 replied.

FIELD REPORT FROM THE ANTHROPOLOGY TEAM Michael Fasman

Oddball started to blurt “Is it something I did? You have a partner? What...”

SU1 gently put a finger to his lips “I can’t explain, it’s the way it is.”

I’ve never seen a security unit act “sad” but SU1 was clearly not in its normal condition. It held on to Oddball and focused all its
attention on him, contrary to its primary duty to continually surveille all its surroundings. Then the anthropologist, who had been
observing the situation, approached them.

“Oddball, may I have a moment alone with, um, Seckuone?”

He led SU1 away from the crowd and appeared to adjust the jewel encrusted costume it had been gifted. As they returned SU1’s
step was much livelier.

The anthropologist went up to Oddball. “As her, um, boss, I’m permitting Sec-U-One to stay around for a while, provided someone
hosts her visit.”

Oddball’s face lit up in a huge smile “Thank you SO much! My place has an extra room, I’m not, ah, with anyone, she can come home
with me!”

“Acceptable. Once her assignment concludes I’ll re-evaluate the situation.”

Oddball, no longer listening, took SU1’s hand and they walked away happily chattering.

The Captain was amused.

“Unusual to program a security unit for an anthropologic data gathering mission but in this exceptional case it’s warranted. What is
the duration of SU1’s assignment?”

“Three hundred revolutions around this sun” the anthropologist answered. Whatever became of Sec-U-One’s time with Oddball it,
or rather she, would greatly outlast his lifetime, and of all the attendees at this event. But perhaps people would still be gathering
for this desert celebration for the next three hundred years, and most likely SU1 would attend again.

The Chief Engineer finally figured out a way to combine an anti-gravity wave with the output of small exterior thrusters, enabling
us to liftoff the surface without damage to the desert, or any human at a safe distance. The thrusters would create a huge mass of
dust, helping to mask our departure. During the dead of night, with the City in full swing but our area empty, we rose from
the desert floor. All of the “Visitors From Afar” bid the city, and planet, a fond farewell. We wouldn’t return but another starship
would pick up Security Unit One at the end of her mission.

The dust cloud had settled around the former campsite. In the middle of a sand dune circle stood Oddball and SU1.

“I cannot believe how fast they struck camp. And no MOOP anywhere.” Oddball marveled, “no tire tracks either, whoa. One strong
dust storm!”

“I’ll miss them, but they’ll be back” SU1 said.

“Excellent! Wonder if they’ll camp in the same spot next year? Maybe they’ll let me inside now that we’re an item.”

“Item?” queried SU1. “I am an autonomous unit, I belong only to the Council.”

“What-ever, sometimes you just make no sense.” said Oddball, and with a suggestive smile continued “Let’s go to Opulent Temple
and shake it up!”
MAN FUN HOUSE
Photo by Dragnet

TEMPLE
Photo by Dragnet
VOLE Kate Estrop

A FROG’S JAMBOREE
By Mark Andrew Heathcote

When it's breathlessly black

and as heavy as brie
it's a frog's jamboree
to forefoot leap with a sense of glee
from the front to the back
of the gymkhana clack.

A theosophist might suppose and wonder

why these theodolite creatures
danced vertically at a clap of thunder
why do they flop, meniscus between measures?
The gaps between sky and sea
the ebony clouds and the heavenly.

Why do they majorette in a twirl?

And visibly seem in an awhirl
of this electrical conductor
are they feeling in step with the creator?
ABOVE THE FRAY
Rider
I GREW UP IN THE BLACK ROCK DESERT
By Chef Acerbic

One afternoon in front of the Artery like in 2004, a stranger approaches a friend & me and states with a great deal of pride, “I grew
up HERE!”

We were like, “Well, we all did!”

And she was like, “Well, I REALLY did!”

So we encouraged her to share her story . . .

“. . . A couple years ago I was driving back from visiting friends in Eastern Oregon & thought I would drive back to LA via the Black
Rock Desert. You see, when I was 3 - 7 years old, my dad & several of his friends would load up their VW campers and we’d head for
the Black Rock Desert for several days during the summer.

“One day, when my dad & his friends were sitting in the shade, I felt like no one was paying any attention to me. I must have been 4
or so. So, I decided to walk to those mountains over there. After I walked about 20’ or so, I turned around and ALL the adults were
looking AT ME!

“At that moment, I got it, that if I was safe in this space, I could do anything I wanted.

“So, on the drive from Oregon, when I got up to the top of that hill over there (pointing towards 12 mile gate) I looked over this way &
saw all these lights and fire and explosions and I was like, ‘what the fuck,’ so of course I had to find what was going on. I pulled in
and bought a ticket at the gate (yeah, this was like 2004 or so) and I’ve been coming back every year since!

“When I finally got to where I could call my dad, I called him and said, “Daddy, you won’t believe what is going on out here in the
Black Rock Desert!”

My friend & I, about the same moment asked,

“So, where does your dad camp?”

She replied, “Not WITH me! — but he’s been coming every year since with those same old friends!
VERNISSAGE DANS LA FORET
By Oryx & Rae

In their debut opening, La Galerie Flasheuse bursts onto the

scene with a progressive exhibition, titled Premier, that took
place at Firefly 2023. The collection is the fruit of a participatory
art piece, Photocopy Your Junk, in which people were invited to
gently sit on a photocopier and duplicate their derriere.

With the initial intention of MOOP management, this mercurial

exhibition developed a gravity all its own, tempting passersby to
expose themselves and discover what it means to Photocopy
Your Junk. What happens when we let fate compile all the layers
of a moment in time and compress them into a two-dimensional
imitation? These anonymous artists were brave enough to
capture the shadow where the sun doesn't shine.

Giggles exploded through the forest as 60-something new artists were born. Onlookers were struck by their enthusiasm for the art
form, and for their vulnerability as models - one couple commented, “I have never seen anyone take off their pants that quickly!!”
But, their joy was brief and precious, as the piece’s trusty Brother printer rapidly ran out of toner.
VERNISSAGE DANS LA FORET
By Oryx & Rae

Though two kind souls quickly graced La Galerie with exactly the required supplies, the reverie was unfortunately brief and
fleeting. Sideways rain resulted in a catastrophic printer failure, leaving a ream of butt-artists undiscovered, countless images
unseen. Highlighting for all the volatility of existence, like rain drops washing ink off a page.
VERNISSAGE DANS LA FORET
By Oryx & Rae

Though a shadow has been cast, the sands of time shift quickly; rumor has it the cedar steed is once again ready for connection
and creation. If you see a flash of light accompanied by a humming thunder, look to the treetops and follow the neon call to
Photocopy Your Junk.
The Association for the Advancement of Rear-Oriented News is

BUTTING IN

WE'RE ALL
REARS
I thought it was real spam.
At the Association for the – AARON Report subscriber
Advancement of Rear-Oriented
News (AARON), we love causing
trouble.

Our mission is to elevate rear-

oriented people in the
mainstream media, and we're
here to shake things up with a
monthly email newsletter
called the AARON Report.

We cover topics from science to

technology, ancient art to
contemporary culture – all
centered on butts. We hope
you're ready for a rear-oriented
revolution!
Interested in receiving the
AARON Report? Hint: it's
brimming with butts, and
it's always free.
Visit our website at
www.aaronforbutts.com
to subscribe!
MAKING MISCHIEF
FROM THE
BOTTOM UP
It's not easy to twerk your way to the top.
Years of front-facing media have left butts
behind, subject to comedy and sexual
degradation. We're disrupting this
narrative by pushing butts to the
forefront, month after month, with
striking analyses of the many ways butts
are changing the world.
 Photo by Mimi Eng
RAINKILLER
By Darren Torpey

This is my take on the Painkiller, a classic tropical juice cocktail in the “tiki drink” tradition. I made it for Firefly 2023 but didn’t
name it until after the event. Given how the weather turned out, I decided on “Rainkiller”.

This is best made in batches due to how little you want of some of these minor ingredients and how many ingredients there are.

Shake and serve over ice:

1 oz (30 ml) Plantation 3 Star rum

2/3 oz (20 ml) orange juice
2/3 oz (20 ml) pineapple juice
1/2 oz (15 ml) Real cream of coconut
1/3 oz (10 ml) lime juice
1/3 oz (10 ml) pineapple gum
1/3 oz (10 ml) Plantation OFTD rum
1/3 oz (10 ml) Old Monk rum
1 dash (8 drops) of Bittermens Elemakule Tiki bitters

The three rums here each bring one of my favorite qualities of rum. The light Jamaican rum gives vanilla and mild vegetal qualities.
The Old Monk adds molasses notes and the OFTD gives a deep smoked wood for depth. The pineapple gum gives it body and the
tiki bitters give it a cool, earthy flavor like birch or sarsaparilla.

If you want to adapt this as a mocktail, I recommend taking the lime down a bit.
Photo by Mimi Eng
FIG LEAF
By Javy Awan

Wearing the fig leaf—it’s comfy and snug—

who’d have thought they’d stitch a model
for blobby physiques, overage and plump—
is there something for the rump? No—a fig leaf
in front commits you to bare butt—pose
how you will, loll and leap, snort in your sleep—
you get away scot-free, wearing a fig leaf—
it’s liberating—nothing to be ashamed of—
that’s what fig leaves are for—it’s modesty’s
last cap, bestowing the dignity and grace
of beauty, without clinical distractions
or fault-finding comparisons. Let gut sag loose,
jiggle the toosh, finger an armpit, burp,
or pass gas—the fig leaf asserts I’m elegant,
desirable, a stud. I crouch like Le Penseur—
how profound my pensées—I pick up a javelin
and launch it from sight—I put the shot—
ugh!—and bench-press one ton, without grunt—
it’s beyond belief—thanks to my classical fig leaf!
Access to museums and palaces is free,
and to black-tie galas and athletic events.
I can say “curvaceous” and “hottie”
and “[censored]” and “[censored]” with nary
a flinch beneath—well, maybe a pinch,
but it’s soon under control—whoops, not quite—
let me dip and flex and lift a knee—Discobolus!
whee!—Plus, it’s green—the fig leaf, not me—
this reusable sheath for planter and seedmakers,
if planted, will sprout. A sudden thunderstorm?
It’s all-weather, see? I have the guarantee—
Watch me out in the street—Heavens, police!—
and with firearms—surrounded! No fair!
Arrested, charged, and sentenced with a bolt
to hard labor in exile? Wasn’t I already there?
KEN DODD
By Mark Andrew Heathcote

The legend that was Sir Ken Dodd

said his final Tatty-bye today
he lived his life at Knotty Ash,
where his Diddy Men did play.

A gentler soul you could not find.

A heartier showman neither
with wand in hand his 'tickling stick.'
You either laughed or cried.
Or you just died for a breather.

Remember his signature song. 'Happiness'

it charted in 1964
remember his wild hair, its shagginess
it's a 'Tattifelarious day.' He would say
Dodd, you could never call him a bore.

His shows ran on for several hours

frequently past midnight
it's as if the man possessed
some magic comic superpowers.

He died at home in the house

he was born at the age of 90
he was given the OBE and Knighted
I guess all he could say was 'blithely,'
'what a to-do.'

His tomfoolery knew no end

Ken Dodd was a Bohemian
he was the King of the comedians
I guess that's why he was so well-loved
and had many lifelong friends.

Photo by Mimi Eng

GREMLIN-HALF
By 2Ravens

One hand obeys the brain,

runs the show, spins the globe.
NECTR 2023 CONSPIRACY BOARD
In a fight, the quick fist strikes,
the lagging hand deflects the blows.

At the baptismal font, the lesser hand

supports baby's head

while the Godly one sprinkles Holy water

on the innocent.

In the case of HAND v hand:

That spearthrowing, cross-the-T, dot the i's,

booze swilling, hatchetty-hot-diggedy-dee look at me

ableist upper hand is enemy― a dandy tool

that salutes quick-quick, palms the Kingdom's keys,

and performs five-finger deeds with ease: Squeezes triggers,
follows orders, shapes reality: Heil heirarchy!

As for us: Wrong-handed ham-fisted―

idiocracy as viewed from the Throne.

Still, we form our mutuality with a lagging foot,

an idling arm, an eye for pleasure.

An assemblage of clumsy parts for sure,

but we claim this half of every human being―

a lesser twin that pulls our way,

our gremlin half, our anarchy.
Photos by Mimi Eng
 PUCKER UP
By Javy Awan

Pucker up dutifully for the ceremonial kiss—

no need to touch lips or cheeks but keep
the mime crisp, stiff, and dodgy—beautifully
adjust your facial aura—pucker up with grace
for the kiss off, the kiss goodbye, the kiss
of formality, antiseptic, dry, respectful—
the kiss on the oversize gem that has sealed
so many writs, changing rules, procedures,
values—history—kneel low and bow down,
close your eyes, smooch the kiss—heartfelt
and sincere—we’ll know from the signet’s glow
when you rise. Nicked your knee? Mom can whisk
a healing, analgesic kiss to salve the booboo—
hers the pure template you learned to pervert.

Did you kiss the hallowed earth when first

you arrived? It lolls in space to hold you up—
it’s family too. Or excuse yourself to kiss
the sky? Soaring on Orphic licks of bliss,
breastbone exposed while fingers twitch
a demigod’s air guitar plunking out riffs
on true love’s kiss. Pucker up, come on by,
face to face, lean close in, it’s a sign—
we know each other that well—lip to lip—
forgive if the untamed tongue slips through
like a neighborhood brat at an open door,
squirmily piping, “Can Pépé come out to play?”
Poor timing! But always time to kiss up—
make nice to the powers that be—pucker up,
before they smack aside your impertinent kisser!
Photo by Dragnet
 SACRED HEART
I TRIED TO BURN IT...
By Isabell VanMerlin

You're not supposed to be reading this.

But I knew you would peek.
Why ask for poems . . .
if you didn't seek?

I could submit
several pages of ash . . .
But then you'd know
I did the burning.
Would you trust me?
believe?
that there were actual words -
possibly somethimg
to read?

I could send you my chapbook

RAGE
that I've been too afraid . . .
to let people see
the extent
of that side of me.
It pretty much combusts
by itself.

Redaction by flame . . .
that could be really cool
removing the irrelevant
burnt holes the important element
but how does nothing
become . . .

An interesting exercise
thinking what your eyes
might have seen
before the demise . . .
in a fiery scene.

Do words scream
as they're dying
wanting to live?
wanting to be heard?

Let that be on your conscience,

you pyromaniac poets.
Design by Baba Anandaji
DEAR MS. EERIE
By Jeffrey La

There's a woman I love

who keeps these New England sheets warm
as she reminds me of the past

and every night her warmth

entangles and ensnares
because there's no one here

and every morning I watch

as she shakes up my soul
like a sand art bottle

My beaten bed
cups me to sleep
with a pint in hand

every dream, I watch

myself from afar
as bridges burn brighter

she's been guarding me

keeping alarms at bay
by tucking away all the mirrors

I found comfort in the discomfort

but she makes it so comforting
For that I love her
much more than I should

Photos by Mimi Eng

LARRY’S PLACE
By 2Ravens

an Oregon farm boy who lit a wooden skeleton on Baker Beach

―https://sfgate.com Obituary: Larry Harvey, 1948 - 2018

I drive out to Larry's place― one

of seventy thousand pilgrims rounding
that stretch of tufa pyramids, inching past
Empire's two gas stations on a two-lane
blacktop skirting a silver Paiute lake.

Past Gerlach, two Nevada deputies

chat by a rustbucket truck, stuck roadside,
its hood raised up to scorch sun―
radiator hissing steam. Three kids
lined up in cuffs, squinting tears.

By the time I Airstream thru

the sluice gates of Burningman,
foehn wind howls a white-out storm:
I set the brakes and flashers: Halt
within this swirl of nothingness

where bleach wind whistles

air, dusts skin and tongue.

Standstill.
Out of bone-white haze,

Larry strides with Stetson hat

and Marlboro ember, felt brim
tilting in the gust. Waves and then
he's gone into chalk-blind oblivion.
 Photo by Dragnet

MR CALM LAUGHS AT HURRICANES

By Mark Andrew Heathcote

He loves white-water kayaking,

spends his holidays base-jumping,
and often goes snowboarding,
shortly after mountaineering.

Without tears, anguish or sneers

he's the kind that faces his fears
Mr Calm laughs at hurricanes
and walks on the wings of biplanes.

He takes everything as the norm.

Does Mr Calm, before a rainstorm
and he never does disparage,
indeed his life's a-true-test-of courage.
A DARK FAE NAMED DESIRE
By Arlene Guerrero-Watanabe

With lips emboldened by black ink and wine,

Her small, lithe body draped in pale moonlight,
A spider’s web, her dress, shivers in flight,
the fairy searches as the night unwinds.

What omens does our fae seek out tonight?

What secret whispers urge her to divine?
Firefly lights encode mysteries and signs
To pathways of pleasure—the night’s delight.

WHITE LIES
By Jeffrey La

There was a scent you once wore

a scent
I adored

But now that this scent is gone

I love you
no
more

ALBATROSS
By Mark Andrew Heathcote

An albatross follows overhead Photo by Mimi Eng

I call him my Damien angel
He has no fibre, he's-just-playful
But to my ex-lover, he and I are dead
or is it we are just newlyweds?
FIRE
MAD HATTER DAY
By Mark Andrew Heathcote
'5 teaspoons of sugar-
found in a full-fat Coke today,
turn-down that woofer
children, why's there such disarray.'
Like a box of frogs
we all have our Mad Hatter day,
at times in a strop
we're deflated, like a soufflé.
So then we're somewhat-
boisterous in-our-cabaret
nutty as a coconut
playing-all-parts in-a-matinee.
Well, keep taking them-
'White tablets' that's all I can say,
'another cup of tea, hmm.'
I'd love an additional Earl Grey.
Design by Baba Anandaji
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
By Mark Andrew Heathcote
He became an icon, a public figure
from a struggling actor, he rose to fame.
Silent comedy was his game
With a walking cane hitched to his frame;
he walked gangly, bow-legged
with a black bowler hat on his head.
He was a tragic lone fellow,
Who'd been sent to the workhouse?
Who'd seen at 14, his mother committed?
But he's loved the world over
for his buffoonery & silly moustache
he played a dishevelled tramp.
Oh, the poor fool, the butt of the joke
he made so many weak-kneed
with a rip-roaring belly laugh
a long time before he ever spoke
especially when he did his parody of Hitler
who himself cried with unremitting laughter.
KINTSUGI, CRACK AND REPAIR: OH WHAT A STORY
By Bob Cohen

For Dina
Soundtrack: “Bitches Brew,” Miles Davis, starting midway through the title track.

Kintsugi, the art of repairing broken pottery with precious metals to celebrate its history. Highlight the scars instead of hide
them. I used to imagine soul retrieval as finding lost fragments and reintegrating them by magic to not only appear, but to be as if
they never left.

Magic can accomplish that task? Time travel? Go back to the moment before to prevent. What if? Divine intervention (maybe
makes that possible). Reorder the substances and essences the vibrations at the (subatomic?) wave level, knit them together as if
they never de-cohered.

Ayahousca, los Niños Santos, Grandfather medicine, iboga all inhabited by espíritus de las plantas which live in us, not the
other way around, but only if we believe because we are the divine, we shape the vibrations according to our minds. Kintsugi.
Wabi-sabi embrace the flaws find the beauty in the ways they transform objects and selves. Cracks and repairs.

Perfection, no. Cracks and repairs. Cracks and repairs. Miles says, or at least that’s what I remember, “wrong” notes are
determined by what you play next. Play it again. Challenge your ear. Backtrack to keep record, takes me out of the moment, cracks
in consciousness, repair with gold or platinum?

Women in my life. Dina. Proxy. She says she’s more. Late today. Worked up. Been late a lot lately. embodying the late for
dinner experience. I say, I am immersed, the moment did not run its course, probably not hungry. She says, maybe you didn’t want
to go home. She says proxy for dad.

I look down, elbow on the arm rest. Hand to face. Vulcan mind meld posture, Index finger on my pineal gland. knuckle of
second finger to my nose. Thumb in the hollow of my cheek. feel shame. To buy time I say, “Fully internalized dad drama.” Tap my
index finger on my pineal gland. Knock knock. Anybody home? What do you see?

I pause in this moment to breathe. I’m writing. chewing my bacon and almond butter on sourdough toast. feeling full,
nauseated. head aches along my brow ridge. Mouth closed. Exhale through nose. Taste the food, wipe my palate and bums, gums,
clean. Chew the bits of bacon. itch. right eye.

Proxy. Stand in for what or whom? thinking about a childhood bully. 13 or 14 people in that little high ranch. Backyard garden.
Competition for everything from food, to space, to privacy, to hygiene, to attention, might makes right. I always had a room, could
close the door. My first novel started out as a revenge piece. No I located myself as a powerless victim at the whiles of the world
around me. I guess I was. Kintsugi. Gather the potsherds. mix the metal, assemble the pieces, how does the pattern shape itself?
What’s the beauty? Not beautiful, so the story goes when perfection is the standard.

Crack in concentration. Kink. Pleasure-pain and trauma. woven in haphazard ways according to some karmic choreography.
Miles runs the voodoo down, chases away the fantasy. chew. breathe. stop. ouch. wipe my inner cheeks clean with my tongue.

The trumpet sounds just like that, indolent funk groove, crack and repair, yes I slipped out of the moment, eyes closed. head
aches. temples tickle. Miles slides in and out of the notes right through perfect pitch to the next word in the phrase.

Breathe. Grief. Embarassment.

 She says you expect to be scolded when you arrive I say yeah but I also know i’ve lost five minutes of our work. five precious
minutes. No easy days. it takes me a long time to work through signals and the noises to find where I need to be in the moment,
where I need to be. I say, while looking up with little boy’s eyes, tie me down and hit me. I trust you will know how far to go, as if she
is in complete control and I am the victim. Reenact the beatings as an adult, do it voluntarily, prove to myself there are ways to
kintsugi the pain, broken pieces reassembled with love and care, re-bound with precious metal to celebrate both the break and the
repair as part of the object’s history.

I left her office on Monday wondering whether I objectified her and how she felt about that, how I felt about it. Who is
subject? Who is object?

Crack and repair. Shame, fear-grief I broke it, not perfect, throw it out. Linda from Brave New World unable to repair her things
or her broken self. The doctors feed her soma knowing it will relieve her pain and shorten her life. No kintsugi. No wabi-sabi.
Revulsion programmed into her consciousness. Hypnopaedia. Learning while asleep even when our eyes are open.

Kinsugi. I want wabi-sabi. Crack and repair, Oh what a story.

Photo by Mimi Eng

ENCHANTED TWILIGHT: A VIBRANT COSTA RICAN DREAMSCAPE
photo by Chris Colman, Mellysa Colman pictured
SHORT-SHEETED
By Javy Awan
Sometimes imagination gets short-sheeted—
lifting its long and graceful legs that stride
anywhere, at any speed, that acrobat adeptly,
ballet, and rhumba, that hurdle and leap, that enter
any and many a realm forbidden or unexplored,
at the perfect pace—that take you at large
with a quickened daring, with a flaneur’s ease—
now cramped by a tricky short sheet—
thwarted, stunted, stifled in the stretch
to restful sleep, into dreaming on and along—
oh the scenes, oh the wonders, oh the revelations!—
rudely blocked with a schoolboy prank,
to the added embarrassment of sturdy laughter
in the dormitory hallways after lights out—
the realist, the logician, the empiricist,
and Mr. Practical—saboteurs of linens?
But when one, shushing, through the keyhole
peeks, imagination already is fast asleep,
comfortably propped in a luxurious cloud.
How to Make Mischief
TIME HAS COME TODAY, (PREY)
By Bob Cohen
“Time has come today,” so the Chambers Brothers say, (Prey)
Daylight Savings time expires come Sun-day (Prey)
“The rules they change each and every day (Prey)”
I get an extra hour’s sleep, Yay. (Prey)
Sure feels like, “I have no place to stay (Prey)”
The colors of my emotions turn to chromatic gray, (Prey)
I care too much about what others say, (Prey).
Wish I could run far, far away (Prey)
Before all my love flies away (Prey).
It ebbs more and more each and every day (Prey)
My tears come and go, to heavy to weigh (Prey)
Cat got my tongue, don’t know what else to say (Prey)
“ I've been crushed by the tumbling tide (Prey).
And my soul has been psychedelicized (Prey)
Raffi Kalani Smith
A ROCKY ROAD TO A SUNDAE
By Steven “Two Scoops” Sohigian

Sun’s riding high in sky like Blue Bunny on high.

Bob Baskin’ Robbin people blind according to spy.
I had a breyer engagement at around time.
It was a friendly town despite this bit of crime.
Baskin hood winked folks, mostly has Ben and Jerry-
atrics, like selling fans to eskimos merry.
It’s all done in Good Humor. I stopped in to say
“Halo, top ofmorning” to Klondike Hershey and play
Some chess with the old timer, who talked of Carvel
Estates. Some snazzy posh senior digs that marvel.
Lovin’ Spoonful. It was So delicious for him.
All I saw was Cold Stone at the site. It seemed grim.
I decided to get a few good licks in for
Klondike. It was a twist of fate and nothing more.
Bob was baskin in the limelight. I made a pitch.
Dairy queen was looking for site and had an itch.
He felt sandwiched in. He had dollar signs in eyes.
It’s like ordering kid size and getting large size.
He was a bit of chunky monkey and phish food.
A cherry Garcia of sorts having a crude
Chocolatey Love A-fair. ‘Eclaired he’d give dough back.
What’s S’more he’d make sure all’s Cookies and Cream for pack.
It’s no rocky road. It was egg nog and rum raisn.
With all the old folk, a cheerin’ and a praisin’
A MATTER OF TIME
Blind Margueritte (Lauren Dyt)

Cars that stare,

Devoutly celibate, Photo by Mimi Eng
Drowning in sand and glass.
Well…..
It’s only gonna be about a matter of time.
before you get loose and start to lose your mind.

The rhythm that’s a dancer,

You can feel it, you can feel it,
You can feel it in the air.
Who cares?
Sup G?

A community market feels it’s way

Into my aroused stately pussy.
Blown wide.
Like a whistle blew me.

Fine, all fine, just fuck it off,

I am seriously over this!
Patiently I wait once the explosion passes.
A need for air.
A trick or dare.
A need for care.
Mantis hair.

A grand reunion of me and of you

Whipping up cream and knowing what to do.
And I love you and poo.
I’m gonna make you feel alright.
And I’m not.

Mary J is in the spot tonight

Booty, footy and dotty delights.
Take me to the cleaner
And wash it all off.
Then fuck me off.
Quickly.
THOUGHT Design by Baba Anandaji

NEURONAL WARES
By 2Ravens

Yo I reprogrammed my brain warez,

set my GPS past the map of creed and prayer,
you can find me floating there:
Bits of flesh, bone, and mostly grayware,
self aware.

Just be clear
about one thing though: No such thing as soul.
Flat out accept that your consciousness
will be obliterated, bio-brain
terminated.

So, that said, reflash your CPU

if you can: Hack the code
rewrite the lines.

Find our Krewe gathered

at the playa edge.
Here we swap our dusty tales
of how far we strayed. We who broke
the code: We the ones that got away.
BOOKS WILL TURN YOU ON!
By Mark Andrew Heathcote
Let it be known. Reading is sexy
as smart is sexy
as pretty, librarians are sexy
as brooding men half-clad are sexy
-in confessionals made, woman to woman,
as a woman peering over her spectacles-
is deliriously deceivingly, 'are sexy? '
As is little cheek dimples, sexy.
As are even some delectable vegetables,
are sexy: here lol I'm only kidding playfully
but let it be known reading is sexy
if you still don't believe me.
Type it into Google Images, and then you, too, will see
'reading is sexy, '
and then you, too, will know books are sexy
BOAT ACPLAYA
AHAB
By Javy Awan
My Ahab moment—running out into the square,
full speed, in bright red tights that conceal my peg leg,
a vest of hippo hide, a leather top hat, a spiked harpoon
razor-stropped, a chin-warmer beard, and a spittoon
wheeled close behind by my Philistine cabin boy.
Avast—the world refuses to obey, and who’s badder
than me? Who has the grit, the gall, the grip, the guts,
the balls—here I brush my tunic back with my glove
to reveal a bulbous codpiece—or the sheer gumption?
Ahab! Ahab! Ahab! But no one tonsils out the cheer—
now ain’t that queer? I’m the king in a sling,
but I ain’t broken! Help me, Jez! She leans out
the window in a bedazzle of gems, makeup,
powders, perfumes, and golden mists., nearly spilling
over the sill the ample lobes of her luscious cleavage—
clever seamstresses! “We can do whatever we want, A,”
she urges. “The world is ours, we’ve seized it—learn
from my Pop, a badass king descended from a dynasty
of badass kings—or if not, from illegitimates
and pretenders and hardcore offenders—or if not,
from badass assassin usurpers. Carry on—
I need help with my headdress. I know I’m next,
but the groundlings can wait—send out the bears
into the unruly rout. Meanwhile, harangue and strut!”
A gust of dust—here comes that bearded puzzler
of a prophet, Holy Spirit guzzler, fed by ravens.
Ptooh! Begone, troubler—no boxing my ears!
I ain’t that Ahab—this is my trickster disguise.
Photo by Dragnet
 Photo by Dragnet

MAYBE I LIKE TO FUCK WITH SONNETS, AND...

By Arlene Guerrero-Watanabe

Does an hour of dance count as a workout,

if I consumed liquor the entire time?
Or was it just me thwarting discipline—
again!—resisting restrictions of rhyme?

Why shouldn’t I employ both iamb and trochee?

Why is my mischief being discouraged?
Ev’ry time I write with traditional
structures, I go rogue and wish to be free.

I like to screw my sonnets on purpose,

and challenge my readers to sway—both ways!
Playing with gender, and ev’rything else,

And fucking with norms, what did you think I

meant?
Fucking you, my muse?
Well, maybe it’s true:
This poem may lead to an excuse—or two—
to get you, Poetry, back into my bed.
 GIFTS

Photos by Dragnet

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