ataraxia vol.1

Ataraxia

Vol. 1 • Jan/201 4

selected literature with illustrations

A Romance

by Tim Schlee

They lived in the shadows, groping in the dark to

map the form of the other. H ers was a subtle

research, half caress. H is hands, by contrast,

could not be contained, leapt from knee to shoulder

or from buttocks to breast, and in their haphazard

delight needed constantly to retrace their manic

movements. The way was not easy. When her legs

grew restless from sitting or weary from standing,

she shifted, and they started over. H e cursed.

When at last his scattered probing mapped a web

too loose to remember and his concentration broke,

he beat himself, and they started over. She sighed.

H e couldn’t bear a distortion, a flaw of any kind in

the image he drew in his mind. She wanted no part

of him to go untouched, unmapped, unknown.

I t was love they were after, ful l and complete, and

it was love they would find. But just when he felt

he was approaching the end of his research, she

moved and spoiled everything. H e cursed. She

sat down. They waited for the sun to rise.

11/19/13

by chris drew

1

latest news:

man in red hat walks in house

woman driving by yawns

2

unbothered eyes at the sl ip of a word

burning down into a fresh tract

for underbrush sly seeds

thoughts to take hold

unshouldering heavy concerns

and bracing for impact

no lack of control serious jaws

and a tongue

with two lips too blooming

petals bundled sounds through

the air as waves coll iding

surprising with intimacy cold ears

and flannel

Hill Sermon

by J ahni Delmonico

Following the grey highway, straight as a dog’s tongue,

cutting between masses of old, rel igious hil ls.

The hil ls and sky in argument, scraping borders with sharp,

wild bushes and irresolute trees.

“When Christ awoke entombed, he pressed himself into

the damp & naked earth

which swallowed him and became immortal. ”

“Buried” synonymous with “renewed. ”

H e hears the shifting wooden floors, pausing rabbits,

cars breathing speed.

H e pushes up rocky crosses and weaves together

the roots of timeless sprouting bil lboards.

Fuck It. Who Gives a Shit? Just Drive!

by Keenan Schott

Too drunk to drive 65

We soared into oblivion

Tossing spent airplane bottles of cheap vodka

I nto the winter air

And cruise control l ing past

Middle American hopes and nightmares and wet, wet dreams.

Blunts were passed like the Eucharist.

Cars were passed like gallstones in unremarkable shits.

With our hair haphazardly thrashing

I n the gelid draft

That weaseled its way in

Through windows cracked for cigarette smoke

We listened to casingle after casingle

By bands we were far too young to enjoy sans irony

And belly laughed at the ineffective rhetoric

Of the anti-abortion bil lboards

That l ittered the side of the road.

We stopped at a McDonald's for dol lar menu delicacies.

I threw up into a toi let paper clogged toi let.

Then I ate an ice cream cone.

With appetites not quite satiated

And cash wads not quite depleted

We hit the road

Like deadbeat dads beating an already battered stepchild

And debated which 'anywhere'

We'd fal l in love with next.

Ataraxia is a monthly zine organized, edited,

and printed by rasasvada. We publish various

projects online and in limited paper copies.

Find more poems, stories, articles, art

and info about submitting your own work

at rasasvada.net.

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