Source: Submissions

Submissions are open at ALTPOETICS for experimental/innovative and critical writings about comic books, manga, and graphic novels.



New Year’s resolution –
stop talking to yourself.
I have no promises to keep.

So it seems, good sense only goes so far as genius allows. As one grows increasingly informed, the desire becomes to lose commonality and the sensibility which accompanies it. What good is a sense if it is only used for good? Give me a sense which brings a sensation – hand on stove, fall from heights. Excitement in known harm but unknown consequences doled out by nature.
What I wanted was not really to be alone but to be head over heels over someone. Someplace for emotions to go. I’m ambitious that way.
Who will concur while I wait? Without a fever for the infirmary. Without need for quarantine, who else will be here to hear?
I don’t like ‘cool.’ I don’t like ‘beautiful.’ I don’t like. I just don’t like. Let me love something indefinable for once. Let me hate. Leave me the freedom to go beyond dislike to the extremist position against certain notions. Let me have floors and ceilings in this room. Leave my food by the door. I’ll swallow it when it cools off a bit.
In solitude, I take even the public rather personally. Get offended or let joy arise from those passing by.
Consequences are irrelevant to cruelty.
Am I guilty of or for irony? What liberty, what power in producing, being, becoming another ending – only somewhat unexpected. Because, who doesn’t account for the curse of the paradox?
I am barbaric. Or I was. Or I want to be. Anyway, Barbary is close to me.
What forms of expression are at my disposal?

Have I seemed happy for at least some of the time?

Maybe in the end it will appear (to be) more apparent.
Somebody is talking about a fear of airplanes and I’m here thinking about a fear of talking to anyone or in particular – a someone across the room from here.

Neither these nor those books are shields. And besides, a proper glance caught in spectacular timing cuts right through.

Oh, but a look caught in flight can see a lot of turbulence.
Patience will always prove random is regular. Chaos dictates how the lines will shorten. No turns are being taken, orderly, while waiting.
Does one exist who is deserving as much of admiration as affection?

I feel I’ve been born into a banned life. I think I understand now that there is no room in languages frequented or neglected for duality. For similarity to feel the same.

This soul came passed down from those passed on with certain policies intact. Boycott the insincere. Embargo bad faith. Find distant compassion for those who are fake only because otherwise there would be no need to ever use words. There’d be no comprehension of a range of emotions.

Nonetheless, I’ve given up on smiling.

(originally published in eccolinguistics)

Relying On

Relying on no entrance

thought becomes


and therefore

thinks for itself


Processing an exit

as continuity


Fearing its own disjoint

as the essence

of death


Which also has no reliance.

New Work at Queen Mob’s Teahouse

New Work is up at Queen Mob’s Teahouse


. . .

how did we grow up into this place?
what trades landed us here?

I was busy being a bookmark earlier, stuck in the middle of the story. I was a paperweight trying to keep the plot pinned down. I was not made for conversation. or I was but I lost my destiny getting here.

. . .

When Truth

when truth does not lie enough to feel safe, then there’s always faith

to fall back on,

bestselling belief

something to fill up on

as all else burns away.

desire exchanged its wings for lead feet

one last kiss was just another undefended explanation.

tender affections cried out for shoulders to rely on

to lift up from where illusions begin

uneasiness travels

even as it is

held back

struggles escape

give themselves away


what charm hides

is severity = sincerity

of situations

slight, slimmest hints

(c)overt flirts

something to imply

before honesty finally comes through.            Ends it all.



More Big News! New Masthead!

So excited to be a part of Horse Less Press.

Horse Less Press

We are so excited to introduce you to our newly-embiggened editorial staff! We have added MANY new people to our collaboration this summer, which means it’ll probably take us the month of September to get everything & everyone up and running together — thanks for your patience and YAY! We are looking forward to what’s to come.

Jen Tynes, Founding Editor, Books Editor

Jen Tynes lives and teaches in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is the author of  the full-length books Hunter Monies (Black Radish Books, forthcoming), Trick Rider (Trembling Pillow Press),Heron/Girlfriend (Coconut Books), and The End of Rude Handles (Red Morning Press) and the chapbooks New Pink Nudibranch (Shirt Pocket Press), Here’s the Deal (Little Red Leaves Textile Series), You’re Causing a Disturbance (Dancing Girl Press), The Fabulous Bilocation of B. Lee (Projective Industries), The Black Mariah (DoubleCross Press), Autogeography (co-authored with Michael Sikkema, Black Warrior Review), See Also…

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“ . . . irony cannot break the wall

. . . building around . . . poem . . . ”                                                                                                           (Harold Norse)


Fermented phemes have grown culture

through aging

fragrance stronger still and stronger to come

but hasn’t yet.


Treasures of the night

have never been found

on ice.

* * *

To the streets filled up on sour

and acidic

quelled on probiotics


Bacteria grown against

God the virus.

* * *

Sewer grates leave menthol and regular packs

green and red

at the curve

of the corner


Back up Coke and Pepsi cans,

and the logos

all the sigils stamped

in coffee cup,

burger wrappers, empty chips, sweet still sleeping

in candy’s former sleeve.


But water

and what passes for water

where concrete, brick

and asphalt meet

slips through

with even

the most fickle poem.

* * *

“ . . . Does

Maybe not matter when maybe’s a landscape of untethered

starlight?”                                                                                                                           (Rowan Ricardo Phillips)

* * *

It’s all enjambment


All disjoint up up above

as together unbounded


and point




spray paint that won’t come loose

from walls

and monuments


where                   upturns

is a route

able to navigate

for food.

* * *

Words are black

and have running

in their blood

Drapetomania is the suffering

of text enslaved

to the page.

* * *

Captivity lets faith, hope

and charity


with visions of Zion

and all lands promised

to the passed over.

* * *

This world cannot be taken personally

* * *


does not make

digesting come

does not confirm

nutrients extracted

to destinations



Swallowed in sips

language has no

bottom of cup


So bloats

So bursts


So hyponatremia

of thoughts

first attacked, assaulted

then accepted.

* * *

Where can’t walls be built?

Gates, fences,

neighbors cutting off stanza from stanza


lose sight

of one                                   another


Disjoint occurs

nonsense teems

begins plans

against 5 or perhaps 6

senses –

sentimental, sensual,

sensible (?).


Springtime further blossoms

nature’s lines of defense,




Winter drops guard

lets jokes

slip through –

pushes them on blizzard



to bury

and give cabin fever

to homesick

broken lines


* * *

Just and just


not too much

* * *

Having lost vowels

over centuries


in clay and sand


Consciousness lost name

and rose as ash –

ashen rose

burnt out


spoken through brush

and to Jeanne D’Arc


and in caves


In places beyond and between opposite openings

side 1

side 2

left channel right channel


in need of visitors’

whispers / speaks / tolds / talks / yells /screams



How the machina comes

is on ears first

– save for Saul.

* * *

Life was begun by forgetting

this entrance.


Since then,

gifts  -if received-

are misconstrued


And grow into curses


* * *


1) to be easily crestfallen by outside forces upon the ego.



2) to be empathetic to the crestfallen outside of the ego.

* * *

“. . . silence crowns the song.”                                                                                                   (Ursula K. LeGuin)