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9×Hµhttp://ERICJOYNER.COM××Ðˆ×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://jBTXQ8EsoJYdd8QxG9PVTUFQ9lQGmcMG_-Rx9UGJqJsÍX˜Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®×‰EÚ˜ISSUE 139 | JULY 2025
GRAPE APE: JONNY DESTEFANO
AGENT 99: KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I
TWEETY: JULIANNA BECKERT
THE PROFESSOR: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI
BUTTERCUP: CRISTIN COLVIN
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DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, UNDERSTUDY, THE IMPLIERS PRESENT:
MIXED MESSAGES, MONKEY BARREL, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE: HORROR
WRITERS RETREAT, WATERCOURSE FOODS, CITY, Oâ€™ CITY, COLORADO
SUN TOFU, PLANNED PARENTHOOD OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS, OFF THE
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FRONT COVER: ERIC JOYNER, HAMMER THROW - ERICJOYNER.COM
BACK COVER: CJ TROXELL, TARANTULA - @CJTROXELLART
SCOOBY SNACKS: ERIC JOYNER, JASON WHITE, PETE KORNOWSKI, JOEL
TAGERT, DAVE DANZARA, HANA ZITTEL, JOE VAUX, ARNA MILLER, JOSH
KEYES, BRIAN POLK, ZAC DUNN, TOM MURPHY, CHRIS AUSTIN, CJ TROXELL
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1
×hf£¼äñv.)®Ž×hf£¼äñv.)®ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://gavXNTAAQW6VKuvGQKfLKYg4gniPxgZpR41VHNna2CMÎ <pÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://lt2OctDotwrU-hXhWx62wXP31njGEQLkI0LkegFKtewÍí~Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://SqZNPq0S2h9du7x4s6Rapjo4mQsmxWAoA7xkxa64bbsÍTæÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£½äñv.)®¼×‰EÚ 8SUSANN BROX NILSEN, WHIMSY - @SUSI_THEWEIRDANDWONDERFUL
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Being consumed by a dark god was just the beginning.
When Thâ€™yalehâ€™s great tentacles rose around my little dinghy, I looked frantically for escape, but of course there
was none. Perhaps there had never been any escape possible, from the fi rst; perhaps all my travails at the oars of the
lifeboat, and the ill-fated voyage of the Robin before that, and the war, and even my love for Eleanor, every breath,
every word, every gesture, had all been to lead me here, to the dripping ascent of those serpentine mouth-parts. In
unexpected surety, like Socrates presented with his hemlock, I looked then not to those glossy coils, but to the late
afternoon sun, another sort of god, who shone down cold and regretful. Good-bye, old friend.
The dripping rose to a roar. The waves turned to a whirlpool, then an abyss. I fell.
Then, the most astonishing moment of my life â€“ yes, more astonishing than that maritime consumption:
I lived!
I awoke violently, coughing and retching sea-water and bile. Even as I did, something snatched at my leg â€“ snatched,
then bit! I screamed, in pain and confusion, kicking and scrabbling.
Understand that all was in darkness, a darkness beyond any you can imagine. It was the kind of darkness that
required ancient words to evoke, words that themselves whispered of long-forgotten deities and the hidden
crevasses of the psyche: cthonic, stygian, cimmerian. To fall into Thâ€™yaleh was to fall into blindness.
Thus, seeing nothing, my leg being thrashed to pieces, I reached in my pockets for any weapon. Immediately my
hand gripped a steel cylinder, its weight solid in my palm. Screaming, I swung it, struck a hard carapace, swung again
and again, each blow connecting with a nasty crunch, until my unseen assailant twitched and fell still.
I fell back, crying out and clutching at the wound. The fl esh all around the ankle was torn, the skin laying in fl aps.
I contemplated letting myself bleed to death. No matter where I was or how I had gotten there, escape seemed as
distant a prospect as cocktails at Delmonicoâ€™s. Perhaps it would be best to lie back and let my heart throb lower and
lower before fi nally falling still. But it occurred to me that the blood might draw more predators, and this put an end
to any self-pitying morbid fantasies. However I was to die, I did not want to be torn to pieces. Grimacing, I tore off my
coat and shirt (leaving me in my undershirt), and tied the latter as tightly as possible around the leg.
I heard a noise then, a repeated clicking, and scrabbled for my weapon where I had dropped it. Finding it, I spent
long minutes with it held before me, swaying this way and that at the faintest movement of the fetid air, before
I suddenly realized what I was holding. It was an electric torch, of course: I had had it in my pocket from the night
before, taking it from my cabin as the Robin foundered. I almost laughed as I pressed the switch.
Nothing. The bulb was broken, the glass tinkling inside when I shook it, most likely ruined when I had beaten my
attacker to death. Now I did laugh, a mad bark that ended in piteous sobs.
I curled up on the ground. I have no idea how long I lay like that; I think I slept, for my head was throbbing terribly. I
woke with the headache (probably a concussion) somewhat abated, my head clearer, and took stock of my situation.
I could still see nothing, but even in my sleep I had gained some sense of the space. The ground was wet, the liquid
possessing a distressing viscosity, like saliva. The surface was irregular, with repeated grooves deep enough to lie
in. It was cold, but not truly freezing, else I might have succumbed to hypothermia already. There were no walls
immediately in reach. There were sounds in the darkness, a visceral symphony: rumbles and burbles, hisses and
creaks.
Sitting here would do no good. I tried to stand.
With much wincing and cursing, I determined that I could at least put weight on the leg. The bone did not seem to
be broken, nor the Achilles severed. No doubt a doctor would have had a more precise diagnosis, but I was something
nearly useless in the wild: an accountant. Even my time in the Army had been spent primarily looking at rows of
numbers. Well, accountant, account for thyself.
×hf£¼äñv.)®’×hf£¼äñv.)®‘ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://kXPX3yl-ErKNXfxCRkNIINdN1bQdzhn8Up8j57tIsFgÎ =ÊÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://ElyCTuuKAOoswig8bMeyN3tonNlegyUKniSSdxckCVEÍêéÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://PQRDtnZz749TrztkDNoElf6zW6iD3zj0yJnCTH1dwRsÍLvÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¿äñv.)®Á×‰EÚrAlong with my clothes and shoes of light canvas (no shoelaces, alas), I
found in my pockets the key to my cabin (the cabin door now somewhere
on the ocean fl oor, presumably), a handkerchief, a pair of leather gloves,
and, gloriously, a small waxed paper bag of currants (I often ate them),
rather sodden. These I promptly consumed, gloriously sweet, and felt my
strength renewed.
I also, I realized, had the corpse of one shelled animal. Reluctant, yet
knowing its fl esh might preserve me for days, I let my fi ngers explore
the mess. While I slept its fl esh had grown cold, and my fi ngers
probed delicately at its broken carapace, encountering smooth shell,
sharp ridges, claws, eyes, guts, and the horrifying mechanisms of its
mouth-parts. It was crablike, but large as a collie: some scavenger in
these depths. I leaned forward, sniff ed its fl esh, and gagged. It stank
like rotting fi sh, though it was but freshly dead. Was it edible? I feared
I would fi nd out.
Rising again, I limped in the direction of the grooves on the fl oor until
its slope rose in a rounded curve. I limped the other way, fi nding the
same. Very well: I was in a tunnel. Keeping one hand on the wall, I
moved perpendicularly to the curves, proceeding with caution, fi nding
the tunnel rose abruptly, until I could not follow.
The other direction was more promising. I walked for several
minutes, and it seemed to open into a larger space, a cave: and here
I nearly fell over some thigh-high obstacles. My exploring fi ngertips
found splintered wood â€¦ my boat!
Or at least, what was left of it. It had been shattered in the fall;
this seemed to be its stern. The bow had been partially crushed, the
timbers of one side of the hull sprung, bent and broken. Still, I wept
at fi nding it. Careful exploration of the tunnel yielded treasure after
treasure: rope, sailcloth, an oar, even â€” praise the Fates! â€” my canteen,
still with a few mouthfuls of precious water!
Slowly an image formed in my mind. I imagined Thâ€™yaleh, whose
amphibious minions had overrun the Robin, rising from the depths,
drawn inexorably by the bone amulet even now secure in my coat
pocket. (I had been a fool to think I could escape, but the amulet was
the only hope of returning Eleanor to this world, and I would not give
it up while I drew breath.) Thâ€™yalehâ€™s great tentacled maw opened, its
house-sized gullet convulsed as it swallowed my boat and I entire,
washed down with a swimming poolâ€™s worth of sea water.
And then â€” it choked. As a manâ€™s throat might hesitate on a mere
morsel, my boat and I went down the wrong tube â€¦ literally.
Now, instead of whatever lake of acid passed for its stomach in this
mountain-sized monster, I had ended, miraculously alive, in some
other part of its otherworldly corpus, some oversized bronchiole or
vein. Who knew if the creature even had blood?
Well, I would fi nd out. I would see where this tunnel went. I could not
really imagine escaping; but I could live a while in the belly of the beast,
and if escape indeed proved impossible, I would seek the chambers of
its cold heart. There I would do what I could to still its thunderous
beating (which, I realized, I could faintly hear, a slow funereal drum).
I had wood and cloth, and thought I might be able to start a fi re with
the batteries from the torch. A bonfi re, then, around which I would
dance, a fl itting devil: a bonfi re in the belly of the beast.
No. 139
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€ROBOTS, DONUTS
& MORE WITH
ERIC JOYNER
INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÃ‰I
PORTRAIT OF A ROBOT
San Francisco local Eric Joyner is a lifelong master artist known for
his fantastical dreamscapes where wires meet wonders. His journey
from drawing in kindergarten to working in commercial design post art
school propelled him to the independent artist that he is today. And
most importantly, his signature subject â€” robots and donuts.
Though he paints what entertains him, part of his mission is to spread
joy to others and provide an oasis with his works through a lens of
comedy, fantasy and absurdity, which people of all walks crave, even
J.J. Abrams and George Lucas who are fans and collectors. But at the
core of these whimsical robots, sweet baked goods, iconic monsters
and nostalgic characters is the essence of what it means to be human
â€” our search for belonging, for being understood, our inherent desire
to find meaning in life as we know it. And Eric reminds us that perhaps
the answers are closer than we think. Perhaps they can be found in the
absurd relationship of a robot and a donut.
Absurdity is a fundamental aspect in your art. Why is it so significant to
your life and work?
I guess because I am the product of a highly dysfunctional family. As
I grew up with a lot of fear and disgust, not getting much instruction,
counsel or guidance. My absurd attitude towards life was thus born.
Take us back to the Vincent Van Gogh exhibition in San Francisco that deeply
No. 139
inspired and transformed you as a child and set you on your artistic path.
Yes, that show really opened my little brain. I was struck by the colors
and brushstrokes, of course. Like so many other writers and artists, it
was inspiring.
In 1999, you lost the fear of your art looking stupid and thatâ€™s when your
work leveled up and took off. What sparked this realization?
This realization was sparked by researching what was out there in
the art world. I read a lot of art magazines and gallery websites, read
biographies by Brian Eno and Andy Warhol as well a good amount of
Charles Bukowski.
Robots and donuts was born out of an epiphany you had in the early
2000s after experiencing artistic boredom burnout. How do you keep your
inspirational fire stoked over two decades later and prevent disenchantment
with your subject matter?
I make sure thereâ€™s a small amount of something different, in terms of
subject matter or the influence of a movie genre. Also certain machines,
settings or desserts.
How do you start your day to get into the zone of making art?
I first exercise and deal with correspondence and administration.
Then set to creating. The hardest part is getting started but it gets
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OVER THE EDGE
CANTINA BLUE
DEFRAGGING
easier quickly and the anxiety goes away.
As a full-time artist, you spend hours on end alone in the studio. How do you
keep yourself company and also balanced?
I listen to music and listen to YouTube. Sometimes audio books. There
is no balance. I try to get exercise every day.
Your paintings are so rich in detail Iâ€™m curious how long one typically takes to
complete. And do you work on multiple pieces at once or are you a one project
at a time creator?
The time involved for each painting ranges from two days to four
months, depending of the size and complexity. More robots and larger
paintings equal more time. I usually have three paintings going at once
while thinking of others.
You work with recurring themes and whatâ€™s grabbing your attention at
the moment in culture, movies, historical events, nature and space. Whatâ€™s
grasping your attention this year?
This yearâ€™s theme is much of the same as past years but I have thrown
King Kong, Barbi, Cthulhu and ice cream into the mix.
Youâ€™re deeply inspired by traveling and being out in nature. Recall a trip
that transformed you. On a day-to-day basis, what are your go-to nature
SOMEWHERE IN PROVIDENCE
getaways in San Francisco?
The most transforming trip was probably when I was 9 when I, my
father and two brothers hiked down a mountainside to the Middle
Fork of the Yuba River in California. An exhausting and near-death
experience. My days are no longer filled with many nature adventures
but I do get to look across the San Francisco Bay every day from my art
studio.
What is the key to being a lifelong artist?
A person will need to have persistence, desire, adaptability, resilience
â€” in the face of many setbacks, sacrifice â€” an open mind and a good
work ethic. He/she will need to write down their dreams, aspirations
and have a plan with goals and deadlines. A pragmatic approach. Few
people make a strong career right away. I think of it as a marathon.
Though your work is chock-full of comedy and lightheartedness, itâ€™s dually
deeply emotional and complex, showcasing humanized characters expressing
an array of feelings and physical states â€” even with your faceless baked
goods. Is your work at all autobiographical or does it lean more heavily on
fiction?
Thank you. A combination of the two, I would say. My oil paintings
are dreamscapes where robots and donuts coexist in strange harmony
â€” symbols of indulgence, routine, and the absurdity of modern life.
9
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Rooted in pop surrealism, these works unfold in familiar yet slightly
askew environments â€” bakeries, sidewalks, and quiet corners of
imagined cities â€” where machines begin to echo the gestures and
emotional rhythms of the people who made them.
The robots in my paintings are not cold or clinical. They fumble
toward something human â€” seeking comfort, connection, distraction
â€” mirroring our own attempts to find meaning in a world growing
increasingly fragmented. Donuts appear as both coping mechanisms
and existential props: absurd, sweet and fleeting, much like the
comforts we cling to in the face of uncertainty.
These scenes often straddle the line between melancholy and
humor, realism and fantasy, inviting viewers to consider the surreal
logic of dreams as a lens for understanding our daily lives. The works
ask philosophical questions with a light touch: What happens when
artificial beings start dreaming? What does it mean to be conscious in a
programmed world? Can absurdity be a kind of salvation?
As we teeter on the edge of a murky future shaped by artificial
these paintings become reflections of our collective
intelligence,
anxieties and quiet hopes. They suggest that perhaps even in a world
No. 139
of circuits and code, the desire for tenderness, joy and a donut remains
universal.
As robot painter, what are your thoughts on the intersection of AI and art?
Caution, fear and excitement. There are a lot of reasons to be
concerned about our future. But since there is nothing I can do about it,
I donâ€™t let it get me down. It looks like we will be going through some
fundamental changes in the coming years. Who knows â€” maybe things
will improve.
Favorite and least favorite aspect of making art.
Favorite part is coming up with the initial idea, or the final brushstroke.
Least favorite part is the preliminary work consisting of research and
work.
A major donut company asks you to come up with a special seasonal donut.
What do you create?
A basic raised or yeast donut with chocolate and orange sprinkles, for
Halloween. Not too many sprinkles though.
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CLARKSVILLE
THE FINAL BLOW
PARK LIFE
MATINEE
How would you describe your art to a robot? How would you describe your
art to a donut?
Haha! I would let my art speak for itself.
How do you deal with self-doubt as an artist?
I struggle with doubt like a lot of people do but have faith in myself
to pull through. Every failure is something new learned, so I keep that
in mind. If things get bad, I look at the work of long-dead artists for
inspiration and refer to Greek and Roman philosophy.
Biggest way youâ€™ve evolved creatively.
With my thinking. Trusting my thoughts and ideas took many years.
Though my painting has changed somewhat over the years, itâ€™s always
been rooted in realism.
Career highlight(s).
There have been a lot of highlights along the way. The top six would
have to be:
1. The time in 2004 when my painting The Final Blow was selected
for the cover of an international art contest Spectrum 11: The Best
in Contemporary Fantastic Art in 2004.
2. The Sanrio 50th Anniversary Show.
3. The Ben Folds Five album cover in 2013.
4. A show in Moscow Russia in 2014 and a project with Solo
Contemporary in Madrid.
5. The cumulative effect of 19.5 years of exhibiting at the Corey
Helford Gallery.
6. The Lucas Museum of Narrative Art collecting my work. The $1.2
billion museum opening reception is in 2026.
Anything on the horizon this year?
Iâ€™m having a solo exhibit â€” Looking Sideways â€” in Los Angeles at the
Corey Helford Gallery July 19th-August 23rd.
SEE MORE WORK & SNAG LIMITED PRINTS + MERCH: ERICJOYNER.COM
FOLLOW â€” IG: @ERICJOYNERART | FB: @ERICJOYNER
FOR MORE INFO ON LOOKING SIDEWAYS: COREYHELFORDGALLERY.COM
11
×hf£¼äñv.)®˜×hf£¼äñv.)®—ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://pxpeb-nUJr_WY_GT7oDXfP_e7js0Z1GC6zksyAUcD_gÎ ‘øÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://pXl3s3N5hsD-kmioIzSkJLnB9okDbu8bY9Fy-z7uz78Í«ÃÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Ral252V8SJQpDBGt2CEP-7lPB7pLpuDCfE_pZMcszukÍ?Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Àäñv.)®É×‰EÚ ;MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES: SAFETY FIRST
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Ral252V8SJQpDBGt2CEP-7lPB7pLpuDCfE_pZMcszukÍ?Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®™×ˆE×hf£¼äñv.)®š×hf£¼äñv.)®™ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://SVOTmOBuWaVWddhbL5u-NuHDliMNMRyeslsi2rbeEhAÎ JþÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://NamTuS1vPnmHN2xAAoXu0W05YuPE1pq0SUD1wCXOFkAÎ ÝÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://fm0gdeKkc5GyjqAC_mG-dMk0rISAfAz4B02da36iQJ8ÍX»Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Áäñv.)®Í×‰EÚ’Is a River Alive? By Robert Macfarlane (2025)
â€œIâ€™ve never more strongly than here â€” in the seethe and ooze of the
forest, in the flow of the river â€” perceived the error of understanding life
as contained within a skin-sealed singleton. Life, here, stands clear as
process, not possession.â€
In Robert Macfarlaneâ€™s 2019 release, Underland: A Deep Time Journey, he
pulled us beneath the surface of the earth to explore the expansive worlds
that run underneath from caves to catacombs to underground rivers. In 2025,
his elegant nature writing brings us to a question â€” deepened by his travels
â€” are the rivers of the world alive? And if so, how they are killed?
Beginning his journey in Los Cedros, a cloud forest of Ecuador, Macfarlane
sets off for the RÃ­o Los Cedros with a group, with each member tied to the
preservation and protection of the forest. Among the group is an infectiously
passionate mycologist, Guiliana, leading their second purpose, the search for
two tiny brown mushrooms that would confirm a new species of the Psilocybe
genus, â€œoften called â€˜magic mushroomsâ€™ in English.â€
As they move on in their journey, Macfarlane intertwines the recent history
of Ecuador's nature protections in his adventure story. Ecuadorâ€™s inspirational
approach to nature preservation is deeply rooted in Indigenous teaching and
practice. In their most important document â€” the constitution â€” ratified
in 2008, the country provided â€œRights of Natureâ€ articles that established
protection of nature. Threatened around 2017 when mining and drilling rights
to Los Cedros were sold by the Ecuadorian government, the articles proved
successful in a stress test. On November 10, 2021, â€œa judgement was passed
in the Constitutional Court in Quito. It deployed the political might of the
constitutional articles guaranteeing the Right of Nature, ruling that mining
would violate the right of Los Cedros: both the rights of its creatures and
plants to exist, and the rights of the forest and its rivers as a system to
â€˜maintain its cycles, structure, functions, and evolutionary process.â€™â€ These
unique articles showed the value in establishing legal rights to the natural
world, granting some protections to one of earthâ€™s countless natural wonders.
In the second section, Macfarlane travels to the sick, dying and dead rivers
surrounding Chennai, India. Here he witnesses the devastation, pollution and
impact of rapid growth on water where the â€œriver had to be killed for the
city to live.â€ Not without hope, he also meets the â€œangelsâ€ of the rivers who
attempt to heal and revive them and to protect the life that relies on the
water surrounding the city.
His last section takes place in eastern Canada, where he seeks the Mutehekau
Shipu, and an understanding of the impact damming would have on the ecosystem.
Itâ€™s here where an alliance was created to recognize the river as â€œa legal
person with the right to live.â€
In Is a River Alive? Macfarlaneâ€™s keen ability as a naturalist, writer,
traveler and curious member of humanity shine. In a time where corporations
receive rights akin to a human being and public land may be sold to the
highest bidder, Robert Macfarlane pushes us to think about nature and our
rivers as far more than commodities, but as beings just as vital as any
living, breathing lifeform.
Sunday Night Movies by Leanne Shapton (2013)
Down by Law; ClÃ©o de 5 Ã  7; Brand Upon the Brain!; The Philadelphia Story
â€” a piece of each of these films and over 70 more make up the tiny slices of
black-and-white film illustrated in Leanne Shaptonâ€™s 2013 collection, Sunday
Night Movies. Some films are represented by a frame of two iconic characters
meeting, others by a credit or title card, and all are beautifully illustrated
in soft black-and-white watercolor, giving new life to highly familiar images.
Through this compilation, Shaptonâ€™s work forces the re-imagining of these
films, allowing the reader to visualize the frames in new ways, provoking
simultaneous feelings of the familiar and the new. A gorgeous compilation
of paintings, Shaptonâ€™s deceptively simple 2013 book is a subtle and worthy
honoring of film. Leanne Shaptonâ€™s work can also be found in one of her many
celebrated books, 2010â€™s The Native Trees of Canada or 2012â€™s Swimming Studies,
among others. She has also created the covers for the Criterion Collectionâ€™s
releases of Kicking and Screaming and CrÃ­a cuervos.
No. 139
By Hana Zittel
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://fm0gdeKkc5GyjqAC_mG-dMk0rISAfAz4B02da36iQJ8ÍX»Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®›×‰E£15
×hf£¼äñv.)®œ×hf£¼äñv.)®›ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://eYQ__j2FtuBaz2CtJBTbSKgPMsExYBcgHZy-xtmJ2aIÎ ƒÓÍ`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://M5UgUrk2nlqHSikD7edz9lM81IDxSPFLKyAPb2vcVAIÎ ÞÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://iC3mPT4XfzwheJTTkSUWeJEsNAP1cgmX91I-iLIRwDYÍTŒÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Áäñv.)®Ï×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://iC3mPT4XfzwheJTTkSUWeJEsNAP1cgmX91I-iLIRwDYÍTŒÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®×‰EÚ .JOE VAUX, BIG FISH EAST - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX
×hf£¼äñv.)®ž×hf£¼äñv.)®ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://V9F3ceyvHEDxpCq89oTk_dQea06On31k23oByefXC4EÎ Ÿ„Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://iXSkkxD7c9MkFjcvFx9KoxnNdo474FmoBCDASZ0OMzEÍÃÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://9hseXmvpmqkG3TZQNsx1kBP-BCi2o-ZOxOFNNh0x9vIÍBŠÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Áäñv.)®Ñ×‰EÚeORAN
BY MATT HAVER
Yesterday
in the bath
I waited for the water to drain
and caught my reflection
in the convex overflow plate.
Between the foreshortening
the reflection
the nudity
the relaxed pose
I'll be damned if one of our arboreal cousins
wasn't sitting there in the suds
gazing back at me.
Albeit short on body hair
bereft of orange locks
and superhuman strength.
But there he sat
an animal we share 97 percent
of our humanity with.
Humanity.
If only.
It got me thinking.
Perhaps the next time we visit
the zoo
we should spend some time
before the bars of the ape enclosure
and beg their opinion
on the West Bank
where their more advanced relatives
murder women and children and the elderly
by the score
over Bronze Age myths
to prove whose god is holier
by the number of holes
shot into hospitals.
Or show them a map
of the hundreds of schools
in the good old USA
that righteous, land
where children kill children
with weapons of war
while the adults look on
with long faces
offering those cheap
thoughts and prayers
equating to nothing
but lazy
self-righteous
hot air
and argue over the books
in the library.
No. 139
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://9hseXmvpmqkG3TZQNsx1kBP-BCi2o-ZOxOFNNh0x9vIÍBŠÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®Ÿ×‰EÚ€NGUTAN
Maybe the zookeeper
will let their charges out
for a little field trip
to the zoo parking lot
where ego and hubris and stupidity
have led to
gargantuan
ugly
wasteful
vehicles
and drivers so smug
they advertise their contribution to
overpopulation
with tiny images
of the exact firearms being used
to murder and maim
at the school
down the road
and en masse
worlds away.
I stared hard at my reflection
and thought of how ridiculous I looked.
But certainly not as ridiculous
as a species
bent on its own self-destruction.
A species
who wouldn't offer another
of their kind
a banana
if they were starving
but of a different
race
color
orientation
gender
or creed
and would instead prefer
to turn that fruit around
miming our favorite phallic fetish
aim it at the other's head
and pull the trigger
then drop the peel on the floor
for the future
to slip on.
ARNA MILLER, APESNAKE - BEST OF 088
×hf£¼äñv.)® ×hf£¼äñv.)®ŸÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://UpBoFXJHBbTwKu2Z8IvKjIDLD5L6ORUMbfzzrs_nfpsÎ á¶Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://YmzaFNaEerWR_gm7YbSKQ9N32btvJcZZ0tIz6m9dvWQÍÿçÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://gn8GZLPHeQdS55YaM3Jz4qCqJSwOrvbGr9u-9W1v-JYÍRHÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Âäñv.)®Ó×‰EÚöEXISTENTIAL QUERIES, MUSHROOMS,
TANGERINES, AND CELEBRATING LIFE
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A LONG TIME
BY BRIAN POLK
LAST YEAR, WHEN MY LIFE WAS FALLING APART, MY FRIENDS
LET ME TALK FOR HOURS ABOUT MY PROBLEMS. NOW THAT
THINGS ARE GOING REALLY WELL IN MY LIFE, NO ONE WANTS
TO HEAR ABOUT THAT SHIT.
When the wheels went flying off of my life last year, my friends were
No. 139
great. They all showed up for me and supported me through the worst
of it. Now that Iâ€™m on the other side of hell, smiling more, and not
hating life, my friends openly resent me for it. But I get it. To tell you
the truth, I think itâ€™s funny, and I can totally relate. If the Brian of today
told the Brian of last year about how happy I am now, Last Year Brian
JOSH KEYES, SCORCH
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://gn8GZLPHeQdS55YaM3Jz4qCqJSwOrvbGr9u-9W1v-JYÍRHÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®¡×‰EÚwould have scowled in contempt and told me to shut the hell up. So
while I understand that no one wants to hear about how I actually love
waking up in the morning these days, I will say that not hating life is
so much better. I mean, oh my god, itâ€™s just so cool. (Iâ€™ll see myself out
now, thank you.)
ARE THESE MUSHROOMS WORKING?
Iâ€™m trying to figure out if all the mushrooms I just took are starting
to kick in or not. I kind of need to know how theyâ€™re going to hit before
I take anymore. Itâ€™s like my first drug dealer told me in the â€˜90s, â€œYou
can always take more. You can never take less.â€ But I also want to be
tripping right now, so if I need to take more, I want to take them soon
â€¦ Wait, this music sounds better than usual, like more colorful and
aerodynamic. Okay, thatâ€™s definitely the mushrooms talking. But I donâ€™t
have the body high â€¦ Alright, thereâ€™s something. Yes, there it is. Oh my
god, thatâ€™s a lot. Itâ€™s hitting in waves and the waves are getting bigger.
Damn it. Okay, so now I guess Iâ€™m wondering if these mushrooms are
working too well â€¦
IS ACTING KINDLY A SYMPTOM OF MY PATHOLOGICAL NEED TO
BE LIKED BY EVERYONE, OR AM I OVERTHINKING THINGS AGAIN?
I spend a lot of time engaged in the following activities: (1) trying to
be as kind to everyone as possible. And (2) wondering if my eagerness
to be empathetic and friendly is a manifestation of the fact that I have
a genuine fear of ostracism and disapproval? And if it is true that I am
acting out of self-interest, does it even matter if I am being kind for all
the wrong reasons? Isnâ€™t being a good person all that matters? In all
fairness to myself, I donâ€™t think I have a pathological need to be liked by
everyone, because I disappoint people all the time. Does that make me
a disappointment? Probably. Do my thoughts run rampant through my
head, making my inner-monologue an unrelenting hellscape where the
only reprieve I get is when I get drunk? The answer to that question is
most definitely. I have problems.
IN THE SPIRIT OF OVERTHINKING, IS CULTIVATING SELF-WORTH
REALLY JUST A ONE-WAY STREET TO NARCISSISM, OR SHOULD
I STOP USING MY OWN SELF-DOUBT AS A CUDGEL WITH WHICH
I USE TO METAPHORICALLY BLUDGEON MYSELF IN ORDER TO
IMPEDE PROGRESS AND LIMIT THE SUCCESS OF MY OWN SELF
JOURNEY?
Alright, thatâ€™s enough of that. Anyone want to get a drink?
WELL SHIT, THIS TANGERINE IS BAD
The tangerine I brought for lunch looked fine from the outside. I had
no reason to doubt its deliciousness. Even as I peeled it, the aroma
of fresh citrus instantly transported me on a wonderful olfactory
journey. But once I began to separate the fruit into manageable bitesized
slices, I noticed it looked a little dry. Then when I bit into it, I had
the horrible realization that this was one bad tangerine. And thatâ€™s a
shame, because I was really looking forward to eating it. But, you know,
sometimes you have to cut your losses. Hopefully the apple I brought
redeems this whole tangerine debacle, because I donâ€™t think I have the
energy to endure two fruit failures in one day.
21
×hf£¼äñv.)®¢×hf£¼äñv.)®¡ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://EgmcoF0NxqA7wRuf3do4JVEgDav5nYiygliXzPXgRSUÎ Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Wsf5fhQQMPDhLIuVnRAt9yLOj4FaZVoWTJI05LoO4YcÍŠöÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://C-7HotfeggqsZF-5Xr_c18-mQchmFqdw1FFzD9Pa4_gÍ4žÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Âäñv.)®Õ×‰EÚ ?ELIZABETH GERTH, MOTHER SUPERIOR RUCKUS - @ARTBYELIZABETHGERTH
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://C-7HotfeggqsZF-5Xr_c18-mQchmFqdw1FFzD9Pa4_gÍ4žÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®£×ˆE×hf£¼äñv.)®¤×hf£¼äñv.)®£ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://sO3rz4FMIzUxKd6IaiJKq10Wnovb01I3EF9iaNSn1-MÎ 3Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://q02xFQ8I3AOUnysMe2BhGglEqrmDifwiDNmuBl0v8YUÍá0Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://--Yv6NYbuHPG4GYZsN0H8C-5uaHvUqpLhMsZpN-L3yoÍOÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Ãäñv.)®××‰EÚöSYNTH
Synth doesnâ€™t say much, but her eyes do. She spent
most of her life with boyfriends who couldnâ€™t care less
â€” until she found someone who made her feel like the
only person in the world. But the closer they got, the
more distant he became, leaving her wondering where
it went wrong â€¦ or if somethingâ€™s wrong with her.
HA T COULD
MEREDITH
The fun, independent one. Meredith is
adventurous, with a fearless outer shell and
a habit of running toward risk. She sees
the people around her weighed down by
expectations â€” and makes it her mission to
break them out of their shell, so they can feel
the freedom sheâ€™s found for herself.
WHA T COULD
WHA T COULD
BRENDA
The one who just wants to be normal. Brendaâ€™s
always known what she wants to be when she grows
up: a mom. Raised in a sheltered world, sheâ€™s now
navigating real life with help from her favorite TV
show role models â€” learning through trial, error and
the occasional chaos. Sheâ€™s sweet, impressionable
and hilariously unprepared.
×‰	Ú 7cassandra://--Yv6NYbuHPG4GYZsN0H8C-5uaHvUqpLhMsZpN-L3yoÍOÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®¥×‰EÚEMADLY
A happily single woman with no kids whoâ€™s starting to
feel the pressure. Her friends are settling down, and
sheâ€™s being invited to fewer things â€” or interrogated
when she is. Everything she sees â€” ads, shows, the
scroll â€” is starting to make her feel like sheâ€™s on the
wrong track, and the clock might be ticking.
G O WRONG?
GO WRONG?
KII
Over being told who to be, what to wear, when to
apologize. The world is loud and full of demands
â€” and Kiiâ€™s done pretending to listen. No more
explaining. No more shrinking. Just: no.
G
FIVE LIVES. ONE SCREEN. ONE NIGHT ONLY.
They could be your friends. Your siblings. Your past self. Or you. Mixed Messages follows
the lives of five people orbiting the pressures of society, love, loneliness, pressure, freedom
and everything in between â€” caught in the noise of modern life and trying to tune back into
themselves. Five stories so real, they literally jump out of the screen. Meet Synth, Madly,
Meredith, Brenda and Kii â€” the five people at the heart of it all.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 15 Â· 7:30PM Â· THE BUG THEATRE
LIMITED
TICKETS
×hf£¼äñv.)®¦×hf£¼äñv.)®¥ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://hacTDfMZB4d1jJtt0qfrcbx4vucmgdOdgKWGIXaPRBAÎ i	Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://iIU1JtLos7uZtSh0G3edtgGbLjRZsY9ZQ5HmIoOBpIUÍðÍ`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://r74rFC64NVWVWVw-2JEBMdlbM-4Fh6KznmCgYSPIs8kÍP)Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Ãäñv.)®Ù‘× ×hf£Ãäñv.)®Û ÍõÍ‘3
9×H¬http://52.am××Ðˆ×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://r74rFC64NVWVWVw-2JEBMdlbM-4Fh6KznmCgYSPIs8kÍP)Í`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®§×‰EÚeINDIFFERENCE WINCES
BY ZAC DUNN
Sewers gush to open water and
Spill a SOUR AGE in BLOOM
the GREEN RUG
That hides the light below
FROG EGGz and
BONEY HERON LEGz
LOONz spoon between
BLU MOONz and MONSOONz
Of wretched BUFFOONz
CLUTCHING SUN-BLEACHED
FEMURz into verses bespoke to
STARz and MONOLITHz
Unto many AQUEDUCTz as
VAN GOGHâ€™z ears grow slow to
Flowers STAMENz STAY and
SCARz GUARD BARz of SATURN
CERES, PLUTO and DISKO VIXENz
OV METERz that all the broken
RADIATORz splayed out late stay
STEEL and STOUT as sips of STEAM
HUSH HUSH HUSH
The walls and mice slumber up
BED BUGz DRUGz and
BUM STANKING
LICE
RICE
PAPER LOVE
NOTEz
Cast off in a bottle to currents of breakers of rules a LIFE OF PI and
CIRCLEz of
DERVISH KISSEz so SLY
Like the torrid and tawdry tall tales
Of BEBE and PAUL BUNYAN, chowing on
DOUGLAz FIR-size YETI finger KABOBz
OV ROB ZOMBIEâ€™z of A.E. WAITE LIGHT
And EVIL TOO
Crew-mates of CROWLEY MOLDY PEACHEz and MOLLY
Who was raised in the name in VAIN
and SOWED SEEDz OV a LOVE and a MOTHER
Was cast into the GREY
AS WE ALL DO TOO?!
BRYAN KLIPSCH, FAMILIAR STRANGERS - @COMFORTABLENOMAD
MUTINY upon a POOP DECK
To HULL DRAG the MAGISTRATE
They knew was too clueless and cruel
To ever SAVE or SLIP on feet that
WALK THE PLANK or FORGIVE
Or FORGET?!
Into another other one another
MOTHERz WHITE ROOMz swoon
SWAN SONGz and DO THE RIGHT THING or THRONGz OV THONGz
MURPHY'z LAW eat me
SEE MORE
LIL SHOP OV
DOORz
WE KNOCK ON
TALKING TOO LOUD
AS WE ARE
SAYING SOMETHING WE
FORGET THE GUTz TOO
But still get to
BLOW the MAN DOWN and SLAM
CRYSTAL CASTLEz to ONYX
COSMIC DEBRIz
OF CYPHER
COMPLETE â€¦ so â€¦
AHOY TO LASSEzâ€™ and BATzâ€™ laughter of LEMURz last PURRz and
glistening BLACK JACKz OV
A modern TIME of PIRACY
YO HO HO HO and a GROG to LOG the MATEz in waters and KRAKENz
we harvest in SPITE of the TEA we sneak off and STEAL a WINK or
TWO OV for peace and quiet to PICK LOX from BOXEz
JELLY ROYALz PURSEz and the TREAT that the SHORE ahead is
worth the COST
OUR CREW WILL PERISH IN EVERY EFFORT
TO SEATTLE
THE SCORE.314.OGE
4:52.am HOD NYC 12.20.25.000003
FOLLOW FOR MORE:
IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC
27
×hf£¼äñv.)®¨×hf£¼äñv.)®§ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍÚÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://MdV0ZCGHukBqJMUFVVC49kOYwUvVPLa45Pr9FqDDSmIÎ Z‘Í`ÍeÍt×‰	Ú 7cassandra://92GfDM5VpIgWRO8MpYQD3lDWIy08pCcI92sXQ_p_kGwÎ ½Í`ÍãÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://01TaQJw5ZKCP4oMvRkNUdy9zRbl6NTw7TBAnOcd9jVAÍPÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£Çäñv.)®Ü‘× ×hf£Çäñv.)®Þ Í5ÍæÍ`9×HÚ *http://QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM××Ðˆ×‰EÚ»BY TOM MURPHY
ANTHONY RUPTAK â€“ TOURIST
The title of this album seems to refer to a sense of being someone who feels like
theyâ€™re not fully integrated into any place they are whether physically, socially
or otherwise. A feeling akin to imposter syndrome, Ruptak takes this theme and
explores it in multiple dimensions in life. Like how things like social media and trying
to be a musician with an audience larger than your immediate social circle today â€”
while trying to maintain a healthy psychology â€” is challenging at best. The melody
and dissonance working in tandem frames these indiepop/Americana songs with a
perfect emotional resonance, lending grit with a vulnerable immediacy.
BLDDDLTTR â€“ DD6
This Santa Fe, NM-based duo fuses cold wave style post-punk with rich shoegaze
guitar work. The saturated synth and near-whispered, deep vocals with melodic and
moody bass lines convey a sense of late-night reverie, reminiscent of what it might
be like if The Church and New Order had collaborated on a more lo-fi yet vibrant set
of songs. The lyrics are vivid portraits of romance and romantic observations on the
kind of life you want, and the precious and fragile nature of existence.
EHPH â€“ CORRUPTION AND FEAR
The caustic vocals and urgent beats on this first album by eHpH in five years suits
well a set of songs aimed at fascism and its partners in totalitarianism and oligarchy.
Once upon a time, most industrial bands had socially conscious commentary as well
as poignant lyrics about personal struggle. eHpH minces no words and on â€œRust,â€ we
hear about how our late capitalist culture encourages extreme selfishness to divide
and conquer while cloaking it as being practical. â€œAll These Peopleâ€ is about how
policy choices matter in whether or not we can barely make it. The band challenges
the very foundation of the thinking that results in endless money for war, while
putting cash into the pockets of the ultra wealthy with austerity for everyone else.
These songs suggest a better way is within reach if we have the will.
HOSPITAL PROPERTY â€“ SINKING VISION
This EP sounds like if someone spent some lost weekends listening only to Chrome,
Big Black, Sonic Youth and The Jesus Lizard and then recorded it to an old cassette
recorder before setting it aside for a couple of years. Revisiting it, they tried to
recreate the intimacy and magic of those initial sessions, but embraced how it would
have to sound different. The warped and cutting guitar tones thread well with the
synth swells and low end, while the drum machine is like part time keeper and part
conductor of the proceedings. Fans of Pink Reason and Portland, ORâ€™s Yoga will
appreciate the sound and enigma of this music.
PLANNING FOR BURIAL â€“ ITâ€™S CLOSENESS, ITâ€™S EASY
Utilizing the palette of transcendent black metal and grimy shoegaze, Thom
Wasluck offers a record that truly captures a sense of having lived a life in headlong
forward motion often carried along by circumstance. Even more, these tracks
encapsulate the rush of oneâ€™s on-again off-again ambitions only to find yourself in
a place of needing to take an assessment of where your life sits, of the people in it
currently, and of those who have passed on or moved beyond your social circle. All
the while sitting with those feelings as a way of processing and honoring what you
have and what youâ€™ve lost, while not sinking in the overwhelming flood of emotion.
It is among the most gorgeous and affecting albums about growing up and coming to
terms with the downside of mortality.
ENTRANCER â€“ RIT
Ryan Mcryhew improvised the core of these tracks with his analog and modular
synth and then collaged them into layered rhythms and pattern. The effect is like
ambient techno composed using the cut-up method where new resonances emerge
that wouldnâ€™t if the songs were written, recorded and produced linearly and through
previous established methods. One hears here the sound of a master of his craft
rediscovering an excitement and playfulness in using perhaps familiar tools in new
ways. The textures and tones have unpredictable flows, and each piece reflects the
freshness of technique as much as the surprises held in store for the artist.
FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM
No. 139
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Before sunrise breaks
early bare branches wash
my thoughts on this last
late cool night talons painted
black scratch blue sky
the fabric splits
dark hues pool
a mess of wound
sky after sky after sky
next to me your arms
paddle foolish
billow in panic
slip on liquid
but you are not
this mess you are
an ocean looking
looking looking
undulating waves
heaving masses
flashing off the round
edge of the earth
Forever hay bales
as far as the eyes could see, the sun
awake just enough to paint
our backs blue, you said
to me, only once,
it wonâ€™t always
be this
way
SEE MORE: MELISSAMITCHELLPOETRY.COM
31
AARON WOOD, OUR SPIRITS INTO THE SEA - @HOLLYWOODINDIAN
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×‰	Ú 7cassandra://OyVhtszxgfUwwN1KfGIeYvJGJTzurJDwdj3hFqkKHxIÍ<mÍ`ÍŠÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®­×ˆE×hf£¼äñv.)®®×hf£¼äñv.)®­ÍÚÍ×‘C‘×˜š   ÍíÍu×‰œ“×‰	Ú 7cassandra://Qx71eaDUrmCbdQzWiwDeBn0bH2l49jeDqcGUOF5nZDcÎ ‰²Í`ÍðÍµ×‰	Ú 7cassandra://AOMSX5NaAxz1uTMnHp943pbODRxvpqHm0aNnBlYi_XcÍYÍ`ÍrÍà×‰	Ú 7cassandra://No9nGVTcfDwlsPHyQ14HnaZzc9cq01IBQFpYa0jeVz4ÍpÍ`ÌÅÍ ×hf£Çäñv.)®ä×‰E×‰	Ú 7cassandra://No9nGVTcfDwlsPHyQ14HnaZzc9cq01IBQFpYa0jeVz4ÍpÍ`ÌÅÍ ×hf£¼äñv.)®¯×ˆE×hf£¼äñv.)®°×hf£¼äñv.)®¯ÍÚÍ,¯BIRDY ISSUE 139Ú ƒPublished July 2025. Birdy Magazine is Denver's only magazine: art, words, comedy, et cetera. Available monthly in print or online.×hf£ª8²Q,$Pí×