Kahlil Greene-Ortiz

Having explored different mediums of artistic expression within my lifetime, I am currently involved in music, painting, photography, and more recently creative writing. Although I’ve lived most of my life in the city of San Francisco, I have fond memories of life outside the chaos, within a more natural state. My appreciation for nature and its mysteries in both light and dark aspects, as well as the lore associated with my multicultural background have influenced the concepts and art I create. My inspiration also extends beyond the self, to what can be observed, existentialism, and the enigmatic.





Natures Cradle


Divine Earth,

Mother of my existence,

Forgive me,

For I have forgotten the gift of life,

Free of the ill will of man,

A reality once essential,

Estranged evermore.

Illumination of the Soul


The fire from within,

Has seen many cycles,

Ravaging like a wildfire,

Burning everything in its path,

Only to start anew.


The dim candlelight fickles,

A reflection of processes,

A fiery passion

A roaring flame



Hand in hand


The fire from within,

Is not for the faint of heart,

As utter darkness remains stagnant,

Hidden from the light

To remain a coward.

Rising Sun


Bring forth the rising sun,

Birth of life, and destruction.


Bless me with the warmth of day,

‘Til your fire withers away.


From dawn to dusk I am your son,

For you are god, and we are one.


Your gentle light will keep me sane,

But burn away whats left in vain.



Listen to the wind,

As it speaks of many things,

Among the forest breeze,

To the endless seas.

Untold stories from millenniums ago,

Often forgotten, to be left in the shadow.


Humanity has created his mess,

Forgot about love, often shuttered and suppressed.

He has created his own restraint,

In his tainted world, dull and faint.

But Gaia will suffer no more,

Redeeming herself like many times before.


She has witnessed first the fall of mankind,

Generations of wars taking innocent lives.

Her landscapes have been altered and burned,

Consequential for life left twisted and churned.


Listen to the wind,

As it caresses the soul,

It is the final gift that is left for us all.

Adonis Eden Staten

Adonis Eden Staten is a poet and artist based in the Bronx, NY. His favorite writers are June Jordan, Juliana Huxtable, David Wojnarowicz, and Sarah Kane. His interests include vampires, mysticism, and music without guitars.


Instagram: @mercurysymbol 

I Saw A Dead Swan By The Lake


And I had to tell you


About the broken neckline its white feathers 


Blooming in the brown grass which was also dead


About your locket denting heart-shaped marks into my clenched fist


About the swan corpse shaped like our quiet and tense dinners


About the lake shaped like the signet your mouth makes on my open palm


In the grass all life can disappear at will


I saw it and I wanted to tell you


You had already gone vanished a grey haze 


Over my eyes they burn the memory film I made for you

Kropotkin Goes to the Opera 


A very long evolution was required before its hereditary transmission. 

Powerless to break it, he lives undivided, household. 

His position is subservient. He has a joint family with the Elphinstone.

They’re dead now. Died kneeling before rotting red velvet cake. 

Appealing to the God of Spring, or at least, playing still, 

Some part in history. Illustrations were given. Doom above the doorway.   

Of past ages enjoyed, but operatic, operating only through haunting. 

Dying as private possession “for ever.”  Simple in love, 

Eager to win. A shooting competition, or just make daybreak again. 

Build a house, break it: how you have a ghost that sings. 

Exit Seraphim


Here is a portrait of my condition: 


 Dragging my own body behind me 

Up a hill, reciting Hail Mary Hail Mary


Who art in heaven? A downy wing, a drop

Of orange juice on the chin, suspended


In hunger or devotion.  

Peacock feathers and gathered voices 


In a chapel constructed from bone,

Of the moon’s beams making a cross 


On the ceiling,  

A statement on my condition: 


Housekept, empty, waiting. 


I wished to be a man and nothing happened.

I wished for blankness and lost all speech.

I lost all speech and the sky burned into my pupils.

The sky burned into my pupils and I wished for anthers.

I wished for love and lost all feeling in my hands. 

I wished to be beautiful and I stopped menstruating.

I wished for kitchen knives and got doves.


I buried the doves in the snow and witnessed an act of cruelty.

I witnessed an act of cruelty and the red lining of my throat swelled. 

I lost all speech and painted my teeth purple with nightshade.

I wished for love and then my head turned into a balloon.

I wished for a mountain and let rock shards kiss my feet.

I wished for a garden and glued pansies to my chest. 

I wished for a mound of dirt and looked into the sun’s sulfuric mouth. 

I looked into the sun’s sulfuric mouth and wished for angels in velvet robes. 

I wished for angels in velvet robes and felt a warm rush behind my ears. 

I wished for stained glass windows and felt thankful for my blood.

I lost all speech and thanked the scabs on my legs.


I thanked the scabs on my legs and wished for a mound of dirt.


I wished for a mound of dirt and had to lick dust off the floor. 

I licked dust off the floor and asked for forgiveness. 

I asked for forgiveness and built a tent with my mother’s hair. 

I slept in the tent of my mother’s hair and wished for a field. 

I wished for a field and felt ashamed of my future corpse. 

I felt ashamed of my future corpse and wished to be nothing.


I wished to be a man and I broke my mouth into a beak. 

Tiffany Hudgins

IG: (@honey_local_)



My name seems to carry 

No weight, 

No ties to anything 

Of substance 

Relating to a standard 

I was born in opposition of. 

My name seems to hold 

No value, 

Despite being the title 

Given to your diamond chandelier, 

Heavy hanging 

As the center focus 

Of your grandmother’s dining room. 

A girl of your world’s 

Most precious stones 

Has a name unacknowledged 

Because of the body 

It handles. 


Let me be weightless then. 

And unattached from names 

That weren’t my problem 

In the first place. 

No power to erase 

What isn’t here for you anyway, 

I soar through my own skies 

In a freedom you couldn’t 

Create for me. 




But I’m sure you see me, now.

K. Michael McTague

"a fever of seasons"




K. Michael McTague


(edited/revised 2/12/20)



orange light, white light

screaming across the sky 

flickering darkness 



drops fall

across the windows

the mystery of water


people moving 

faster each moment

stop and think



In hindsight

you cannot change the past 

making mistakes 


the mind can hurt 

a way of life destroyed 




one day we are here

living, breathing, in and out 

death comes swiftly 



why don't you see me

i am in front of you

frustration aches



nothing will be

good enough for anyone 

i am lost



raining city 

flying past my window

light moves away 



a deep nostalgia 

seeing the falling sun

day into night



cold winds, October skies

a warmth in the rain

happiness in decay




like the thinnest of glass 

a fractured mind 



what is death?

a release from life

nothing stops  



love, a fragile being 

desire, it's wicked head 

it shows us truth 



faces obscured

through colorless windows

formless feeling



a fog creeps in,

into view of my eyes

damaging my mind



you will never know

how deep these wounds are 

regrets and mistakes 



people all around 

talking laughing drinking

nothingness holds me



a still life 

what i am becoming 

black and white



everything around me

each passing minute fades

life out of focus



stale smells pierce the air

clouds roll in, gather darkness 

cold in May



shimmering glitter

reflects off her cheeks 

profound love


a cold breeze blows

rain knocks on my window

sleeping eyes



as soft sun rays

enter the window 

cold morning stirs



early morning 

colors fade into light 

warm contentment 



a cold stare across

this place of worthlessness

frozen feelings


the point of living

to be something

why bother 



i see two figures

bathed in white hot light

they slip away 



it rained hard

you name on my lips 

wishing for it to end



my open eyes

feeling the cool air blowing

thick, humid air ascends



a warm sun beats down

on the crucified transformer

energy throbs



hot highway tar

covered in chrome parts

the journey home


black and white

streams of information 

binary bodies 



in the pre dawn

eyes heavy with sleep

cold greets me



dear sad lonely girl 

i know how it feels

no one cares, coldness 



sunlight rises 

cold and the blue sky

i am still with you



lonely bus ride

wet air seeps through me

sad faces



death sings

an aria so pure 

i cannot escape 



hot air stabs 

the eyes, the face of man

change is coming



pulsing waves die

stone faces tell the story

full of decay 


the light is falling

sharp chords pierce my memory

cold winds



soft music on the air

strong wind cuts my throat

bleeding love 



us, face to face

you, staring through me 

time, on my lips



blasts of brutal noise 

the red lights in the fog

death is the end



sunlight splits the clouds

giving birth to the day

a new chapter



static blasts through me

soft pink light hangs low

you and i, forever 



fuck this world

packed with shit

decay in abundance



distant thunder rolls

shake my mind to dust

removal of reason



this pain is too much

it consumes me, rotting

my flesh, my bone 



shafts of light

familiar sound fills my ears

losing the battle


cracking voices cut 

the static air

swollen eyes



sadness, flows in me 

violence, spews from my mouth 

a destruction 



existence is pulling 

end to end, limb from limb

the ultimate pain 



clinging to feeling

you bring me to life

joy and pain



lightning in the distant

the thick air sticks to me

summer rain



breath of cold

ice clenches my heart

it shatters


thick clouds of haze

the sky blackens the sun




beings start to stir 

the world is alive again

this creation 



with feeling 

heat consumes me 

slow death 



youth is gone 

searching for happiness

we die slow 



a young girl 

bathed in deep colors

familiar vision 


alone, in a room

crouched, weeping 

guilty for being 



the rain fell slow

sounds deep in the distance

fear, as it comes



fresh lemon, morning light

the look in your eyes

a silent kiss



enough of pain 

seeing you slip away 

burning flesh



seeing the world 

obscured, like dark colored glass

nothing can save us



look at these faces

what is beneath them all? 

pain, joy, anger, regret 



things are different

once, never again

the tragedy 



in the grey light 

the wetness prevails

like choking death 



the stillness in me

pain swells like the sea

blood boils


hatred crushes 

like fog floating

cemetery stone 



what tomorrow holds 

unknown to me and you

its in your eyes



slicing the darkness

pillars of blue light

reaching closure




from the world

we are free



seeing warm eyes

something feels special 

the scent of you 



anguish greets me

in the flesh

with nothing left



finding my true self

splitting my head in two

blood and tears 



snow gently falling 

feeling of isolation 

trust no one 



the sun is low

where sky meets earth 

a deep breathing 



what is life

without fear and pain 

broken shells



a sudden snap

of my bleeding neck 

reveals us



i’ve lost control 

swelling up and spewing out

ripe with violence 



distraught over life

i’ve made a mistake 

cold hearted


you’re face boils 

the world, full of blood

burning my eyes



pain and sorrow

peeling skin, dead

a total numbness 



what is left

see the beauty

in death, we find it


when will it end?

facing this agony

the needle point

Katherine Earnshaw
Katherine Earnshaw is a queer, depersonalized student of Near Eastern Studies with a predilection for poetry and botanicals.  Her work draws on the intersection of queer desire, mysticism, the occult, and psychoanalysis.  
IG: @leromanovs

Two Daydreams from Yekaterinburg, Sometime in April



I. You dream there is a god,

But no one is saved.

If no one is saved,

No one can be damned.


It is not a bad dream.  


II. There was an acid already in my stomach

Before they poured

More over our remains.  

Somehow—and I know this is impossible—

It was of an identical causticity.  


You would like to have visions.

God can give them to you

Any time he pleases.

He can bless you with hemophilia, or

Radiation poisoning,

Or perestroika.  


People are useless, all imitations of the real thing.

Artificial intelligence.

Any of us could pass a Turing test, but we would be lying.

Maybe that’s the point. 


Drop and run,

Your feet will not take you far enough.  


III. We are back at the blue house

And Mother and Papa are throwing 

A dinner party.

I am asleep upstairs until I am not,

Until I am moving down the stairs to the landing.  


All of the guests are full of mirth,

Perfectly jovial.  


Construction workers in their

Neon vests, reflecting everything.


Mother is serving hors d’oeuvres and papa is flirting with 

A girl obscured in shadows.  


The twin cousins from the United States are dancing on the kitchen table

In red tap shoes and sequined dresses.


I am dancing with them.


No one here has any eyes.  

Screen Shot 2020-06-24 at 10.35.05

Somewhere Very Cold with Cherry Blossoms, 1934


It is horrific

To leave you stranded



So I do it over and over again in my mind.


The crime itself is penance.  


Recently I have been developing photographs in the dark room.

I do not know who took them.

Maybe it was [REDACTED]

And I’ve just forgotten.


They are all very unlike art.

Roses, forever trapped in bud, devoid of color or bloom.


You might say it is sinful to take pictures—

Here is a moment in black and white,

Deprived of bias.  Realism destroys the story.


So after they have spent the suitable amount of time in the developing


I censor them.


Over and over again.


The crime itself is penance. 



Shores of the Baltic, Mid-Afternoon



It is very hard being a black hole


Sometimes when an octopus becomes bored to the point of insanity

Or just a little 


It begins to eat itself


A sociopath is made but cannot be unmade

And that makes me [REDACTED].

A leaf is pressed into the deadness of 


The leaf decays, in the manner of 

Most organic materials.

Here is the impression.

What do you name it? 


When an ancient horseshoe crab is done

It makes a death spiral.  

As though to assert infinity.


One time we were on the marina

And smoke swallowed the entire sky

And you wore a mask and I didn’t.


Oh, I hate her now,

Quit the barista job because the oracle said so

And caught a fever

Outside on the front lawn

Watching your back receding down the street.  

You promised this family would not repeat,

You promised.  

A rose is a rose is a rose and

I know, 

But I didn’t take you for a rose when I first saw you.  


(Oh, scavenged thing!

Eyes full of faith and psychopathy!)

I take orders, and you

The dust of a decomposing discipline

Reciting Kepler’s laws to the moon herself just

To keep things in orbit.  


Eventually they will run out of ventilators,

And holy men.  

And I will run out of ways of hiding my love for you.

Screen Shot 2020-06-24 at 10.40.45
KT Cavanaugh

 KT Cavanaugh is an enthusiast of all things absurd, four-legged, and big-hearted. She traded swamps for mountains when she moved from studying English in Florida to working as a pet product business's Publication Manager in Colorado. 


Social Media:

Personal Instagram: K.Cav

Art Instagram: KCavCreates

Last Night

I dreamt that

I met George W.
He handed me a half-finished poodle painting
of his.
I said to him,
“It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”



I was six,
crossed-legged in a kayak.
A turtle drifted by with
its head caught in a Coke can, out of reach.
Dad said,
“You can’t save them all”
and we kept going.


I was baking in the heat
of car lot asphalt.
All the cars were your Kia Rio,
left side mirrors dangling.
I didn’t have to look in the windows to see the Red Bulls
and dead lighters.
“The doors are all locked,”
I said to
no one at all.

No Man’s Land

On your return
the sound of first-home unsettles, after you have digested
so much overdeveloped noise. Here, the score of the swamp remembers its way
under your skin.

Scattered owl hoot,

metallic Cicada whine,
echo of interstate.
All of that sound,
carried like something spectral through reptilian green belt.

The green belt that bore mother gators,
sluggish with pregnancy
and central Florida heat. That shuffled
Armadillos muddled with lust and instinct

into backyard traps.

Over time you took that same swampy tangle around blooming waist. Proliferating in humidity.


Learned adaptation from the way stubborn things grow when they ignore boundaries of

Learned to survive the sear of femininity and boiling-over-land at once.
How to separate storms into
what warrants seeking shelter/

what is meek enough to swim through.

So, on this reverberating Night home you
Do not flinch when a Kingsnake appears on re-done flooring.

Don’t pause to wonder if it’s bite would poison.

With brutal tenderness and kitchen tongs
you march it to the street’s endless mouth.

Throw it to the dense, unpassable animal there without looking back.