Whilst you were sleeping
they never did quit,
beneath all the blinking
and locked behind lips
on the tip of their tongues
lain low in your mind,
their song was still sung
your hands were still tied.
So their teachings continued
lesson fourth unto fifth,
wisdom quietly imbued
to be certain it sticks
with a cross as a crutch
thus engraved in a prayer,
they then levitate up
and fade away in the air.
a poem by Anna Renee
it is mid-afternoon, and we are exhausted—
you from driving, me from
refereeing in the back of the minivan
“i’ll follow you into the dark” by
death cab for cutie plays
while we’re almost to our airbnb in
delaware, and it makes me ponder
what dying will be like—
whether holding your hand or
reaching upwards for it?
who will go first, and
how far behind will the other be?
i remember watching paradise, when
billy dies from a poisoned beer bottle—
how his death is glamorized, then
passed over, the viewer
processes, then continues
we must know that real life is
different, that when we take our last breath
there is no camera, there is no
onward for the viewer themselves
but rather a sudden, black, stop—
without us, you, me.
will meeting you again
be like diving deep into
the turquoise ocean, swimming
upwards towards the sun, waiting,
waiting, to break surface?
the warmth of the water
hugging every inch of skin,
following the light home while
still laughing at the last
joke you told me?
when i take a new breath,
will it really be you
resuscitating me whole?
this life lost a whole lot
of meaning, without you in it
wait, no
that’s not right
how ’bout:
this life is worth a whole lot
less, without you in it
no, no
closer, but no
let’s try:
this life is hardly worth
living, without you in it
ugh—hold on
that’s not it, either
maybe:
this life, unfortunately
will go on, without you in it
unh-unh—all true
but not hitting the spot, y’know?
possibly:
this life is so
empty, without you in it
oh my Almighty Blah
you can’t be serious—furthest yet!
bring it back home:
this life… this life…
(juxtapositional—
for example:
how you once
saw/thought of/felt for me,
versus
how you’ll never
see/think of/feel for me
again)
fuck—i don’t know;
i’m far off the path,
emphatically lost,
well in the weeds,
at a total loss
for words…
thinking through some “wise” words of others,
one said:
“life, uh, finds a way”
another:
“until they came and went,
i never realized how alone i was”
a third:
“she took from me what i was,
then asked me who i am”
who am i?
do you still want to know?
what am i?
are you sure you’re ready?
what i am?—really?
ok, you got it:
i am so sick of watching the sunrise
(the same one we shared so many times)
with you no longer by my side,
me no longer by yours;
us, no longer together…
[the crickets’ chirps hold no answers—
at least, none i have yet been able
to decipher or comprehend]
…
……
………
…………
……
………
wait!—
i got it:
“you gave this life something i cannot define,
[why trample with words—
haven’t i trampled beauty enough already?]
nor can i see how one could ever want to.”
is it the nightmare or the
dream—or, possibly
the in-between—of it all?
the dog’s bark or the
silencing of such
that makes you crazy
or shuts you up?
the feeling & meaning
seeping beneath the lines—
the light in the attic
or the carriage house
of the rotting mansion?
the shout from the past
from back in the day
saying: “hey! the shadow
needn’t lay that long!”?
the backseat scoreboard
or the contemplation
of every situation
that manufactures mirrors
in odd gutters & obscure
pathways, leading to
the thick bog of
preternatural prayer?
the history of the
mystery trapped inside
your double helical
faith, or the
face of the watch
you cannot bear
to see? (no time
to look) (nowhere to be)
how engrossed you are in
nightly routines or
supernatural phenomena,
your upstairs neighbor on
your porch with a Blahdamned
bazooka, pointed at the stars?
existential crises averted
by the sway of
her sunlit thighs,
geysers masked as
swimming pools, or
the off-tune humming of the
greatest rhapsodic melodies,
cyclical & reoccurring through all
song, present prior to the imperishable
click of time & everlasting long after
its storied, celebrated end?
a heedless steedless
merry-go-round, or
the center of the sunburnt
cinder block,
harder than concrete
yet lighter than air?
the heart, the head, the body—
the infinite et cetera buried
at the core of all fictions, yet
constantly howling down each
of your ear canals with staggering
force & impeccable accuracy,
shattering your cochlea to bits like a
frag grenade—your BB-sized aural
snail shell-shaped miracle mechanism
blasted to shrapnel—
embedded in your
temporal bone & braincase,
retained for the remainder of your
corporeal existence—as long
as it
at times
seems—a somatic souvenir
for the rest of your
mortal lifetime—as short
as it
indeed
is?
…no, no—it’s none
of this,
but, it’s a process
of elimination, you
see?
[this is but only a starter kit]
now, please, do you
have a light? would
you be so kind as
to lend it to me?
this is my last smoke.
[When
the moon’s
on a
milk carton,
you join
the search
party or
turn up
missing—
when the
moon is
full, you
settle down
& listen up.]
i sat down
alone
in a gorgeous
place in a
golden mood
i pulled out
my pen and pad
with intentions of
describing both in
vivid detail
i realized
it was impossible
(or, rather, improbable)
i concluded that
i’d rather just
enjoy it by
myself
…with you.
A series of poems + prose conjured from the minds of J. Evan Rogers + Bailey Gaus
The Contrarian did not appear—he was discovered, as one discovers a flaw in reasoning only after depending on it.
He stood where the Alley of Sincerity narrowed into something less like a path and more like a decision already made.
“You’ve come far enough,” he diagnosed.
The Vermilion Kittens circled him without reverence. One hissed. One slept. One dissolved halfway through a blink and returned differently colored.
“They are not guides,” he motioned to the walls, nudging a Kitten aside with a shoe that made no sound. “They are rehearsals.”
The Alley stretched, or pretended to. Its walls—if they were walls—leaned inward as though listening.
“Sincerity is only convincing when observed,” he said. “Tell me, who is watching you be sincere?”
There was no answer, which pleased him.
“And the Wall of Reason,” he said, almost kindly, “is a marvelous invention. Nothing passes through it—not even error. Especially not error. It keeps you very safe inside what you already believe.”
At this, the Alley bent. Not visibly, but undeniably. A step forward resembled a step already taken.
One of the Vermilion Kittens led onward. Another led back. A third insisted there had never been a direction at all.
The Contrarian sighed deep and hot, not with frustration, but with recognition.
“You were told to proceed,” he said. “But not what proceeds you.”
He gestured, and for a moment, the Wall of Reason could be seen—not ahead, but everywhere at once, thin as smoke and thick as doctrine.
Something struck it—from which side was unclear—and the sound was identical to agreement.
“Listen carefully,” he said, lowering his voice as if approaching honesty. “If the Pendulum of Morality truly swung side-to-side, you would never mistake motion for progress. But it does not.”
As if summoned by contradiction, the Pendulum revealed itself—distant, immense, and wrong. It lurched forward, then back, then forward again, like something reconsidering its own premise.
“You were warned about deviation,” he said. “You were not warned about design.”
The Alley narrowed further. Or perhaps it focused.
“There is a simpler path,” he said at last. “Not easier—simpler. Fewer symbols. Fewer intermediaries. No performances for unseen audiences.”
A pause, precise and deliberate.
“You may continue,” he allowed, gesturing toward the multiplying kittens and the receding Wall. “Many do. It is a very convincing system.”
Then, almost as an afterthought:
“Or you may refuse to arrive where you were told you are going.”
The Vermilion Kittens stopped moving.
Not in unison—never in unison—but in suspicion.
The Alley did not change.
Which was, for the first time, noticeable.
And somewhere—whether ahead, behind, or within—the Pendulum failed to decide, and called that balance.
hate to say it,
it’s unfortunate but true—
you could have been anyone else
you could have had anything
but! no such luck!—
you’re a rotting leper,
a terminally ill mental case
with a new disease
you’re a boy genius
teetering on the edge
of holding the cure
now if you’d just get sick enough
to want it bad enough
to pull it out of you already
america sucks to fuck??
na!; earth only sp-
ins
to win—
for itself & no one!!
else (except you)
you’ve got it wrong;
you’ve got it backwards:
what goes around doesn’t always
come around, and what stays around
doesn’t always stick—
IT’S OVAL, YOU IDIOT
(it’s calm as a peach;
orange as an apple)
and for Blah’s sake:
just be a tangerine.
It’s not about who
predicted it (because
no one did), it’s
about who was
prepared for it (not
who wasn’t),
and that is:
the doom ’n gloomers,
the poets,
the singers ’n seers,
the downtrodden ’n
forgotten,
the manic ’n the depressive,
the anti-socialites ’n
contra-non-believers—
who never forgot
that things were already
fucked—we’ve been
fleeced from the jump,
the genesis founded
upon unbounded
generational swindling;
the cornerstone since
time immemorial (in
rough shape, battered ’n
bruised beyond
recognition—like there
ever was a point of
reference anyhow)—
and that they had to get
worse, before they
had the slim,
shimmery silver shot
of getting better.
A series of poems + prose conjured from the minds of J. Evan Rogers + Bailey Gaus
To seek Truth—if She still breathes—follow
the Vermilion Kittens, their eyes aflame
with candor, through Sincerity Alley
to the Wall that Reasons Back—lest the Pendulum
of Morality defers to its own direction: back-to-
forth rather than side-to-side.
The Contrarian arrives barefoot, aghast
with vagrancy, pockets full of static, claiming
resurrection by tessellation, offering a celadon serum
that hums like a neon Eucharist, insisting it will
transmute your spiritual dampening
into an onslaught of joy.
The Forgettable Saint has warned against
this for centuries, wounded with immortality—
unheard beneath the Symphony of Creation,
unnoticed amidst the Divine Cosmic Waltz.
Emerging from the Oracle’s Closet, the Underaged Alchemist
promises the Promiscuous Prodigy—with maps drawn
on their wrists—that to reach the Dungeons of Abundance,
one must resist the gleam of the Gold-Plated Gallows,
decipher the Infirmary of Mysteries, and avoid at all costs
the Parlor of Perpetual First Impressions—unless one wishes to
unknowingly begin again back at the beginning,
never to speak to Him, trailed for all eternity by
the infinite ellipsis in an everlasting glow of gloom.
Enough with riddle and scripture—the illusion and reality of it all.
Step through.
It’s time to experience the Netherrealm from the inside out.