Download - 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.
thanks for reading,
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