Tag Archives: SUNY Brockport

Nilson Carroll

At Chelsea’s

And now me and Zac are starting the fire out back for everyone:

I have his flashlight app

and we hear death screams from within the house

and party music, a LAN party playlist playing,

but where’s Chelsea

and where’s my beer, where’s Warhol’s tombstone, fucked,

where is my SSD that Rob gave me with all my shit saved on it, broke,

and where the fuck is Jodorowsky right now


this fucking

second? I seek something clearer, “on the verge of tears.”

Hannah (?) says Zac and I look

epic in our new riot gear, and I’ve still got

his flashlight wrapped around my fist, full of pride.

In the antechamber, a rotating filter of phantasm ooze

zumbas outside the only bathroom in the whole neighborhood,

flickering voodoo masks winking and grinning and laughing and

cursing. Touch one, and you’ll be sent back to the first area…

I drink for them now and I drink to this as well.


All my friends ask if I need a ride back east

but I decline

and recline

back into this sofa

spilling shit all over myself,

mourning something stupid and “transgressive,”

cramped underneath old yearbook photos

of Chelsea beaming on the wall.

Crystalized, kind of blue,

etc, etc.

A Profound Valor

“I’m reduced to 15-year-old fisticuffs now versus

Mom’s hoary lodger, crabstick-skinned

Steven Howard Junior, over cable charges, over

Something called ‘Eat My Hot Bavarian Log.’

He says he never watched it, calls my mom

A parody of her former self.

I swear to the RNG gods I’ll

Knock his fucking block off

For lying to my poor mother.

I mean, shit, we’re

Practically the same


Nilson Thomas Carroll studied playwriting and sculpture at SUNY Oswego where he earned a BA in English (creative writing). He is currently working toward an MFA at the Visual Studies Workshop through SUNY Brockport.

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Rachael Mulvihill

Canoodling of the Arrector Pili Muscle

The best thumb twiddlers count their twiddling as a step toward Zen

—like enlightenment (though husbands/wives/part

ners of many top twiddlers  report concerns of OCD). Consider

whether you will allow a dominant rotational direction or strive for equality

between front and back twiddling? Will your thumbs touch

or not? If they touch, will you keep them in constant contact or will they merely bump

during each rotation? How deep will you twiddle? Thumbnail? First knuckle? The full length

of the thumb? Could you twiddle one thumb toward your fingers (front-twiddle)

and then away (back-twiddle)? What about your regiment? Are you open to same-sex partner

twiddling? If so, will you contribute the right or left hand? Are you going for speed,

attempting to increase RPM, or endurance

twiddling, looking to boost your hours? Or are you going for technique

twiddling, hoping to develop the perfect twiddle rotation? How and at what depth

will you interlock your fingers?

<< 98.2 
c i n g u l u m >>

Rachael Mulvihill is a senior at SUNY Brockport. She is majoring in creative writing and works as a paralegal in Rochester, NY. She is inspired by oddities in the world and is passionate about expressing experiences through text. She is convinced that mermaids exist and that there are alternate realities. This is her first time being published in a literary magazine. She plans to attend graduate school at SUNY Brockport in the fall of 2016.

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Christian Wessels

After the Levees Broke

Ma warned me to cool

my nerves when I saw him.

I thought He’s more hound

than gator, more levee

than bayou. In the emergency

room, she carried me down

into the marshlands. When

our names had been made

into a list, we waited hours

to meet him at the north end

of the bog. I was dehydrated—

I took off my T-shirt, my sandals.

I thought a mosquito to be

a sparrow, a bullfrog to be

a kitten—his name was called.

We made our way upstream

on a low-power air boat,

catching glimpses of children

drowned in the silted mud,

lovers lying still at the shore

with fevers only a few degrees

warmer than the air, bodies

with crawdads pulling at their

ears. The treble of our slow

move forward was all I could

hear. Behind a homing thunder

storm, near sunset, Ma cut

the engine and carried me

off the boat, into the bed

of reeds. With those canes

and stalks around me, I looked

down past their roots. I saw

Pop there, lying with his eyes

closed, waiting for the sun

to finally bleed itself dry,

the nighttime air to turn cold.

<< 2 poems by Rachel Beneway 
 2 poems by Savannah Skinner >>

Christian Wessels is a senior at SUNY Brockport where he studies poetry with an interest in literary translation. He is the student manager of the Brockport Writers Forum and has received grants from the Brockport Foundation to fund his research on American war literature. He would like to have dinner with all of the Argonauts besides Heracles.


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Lore McSpadden

Movement of the Myth

Legends are the dangling legs of broken puppets.
Obsession quotes from tales of frayed extension cords.
Buoyant pseudonyms clutch the rusted lampposts,
point in the direction of stopped sinks
and rosy-roofed homes. The spells within the jukebox echo
between the silos. Dreams jitterbug the pleats and pockets
of the road to Roanoke. Ballads slow stitch a low hem
on a mud-dappled cloak. The translated opening lines are
crumbled flowers beneath paint-peeled porches, plots
are frowning landlords in faded boots. All of it,
leaping from the crevasses of the collapsed birch,
swinging up and out on tangled vines, shouting
the news into empty canyons.

Lore McSpadden  is a second-year graduate student at SUNY Brockport. When she’s not compulsively reading and writing poetry, she is usually lifting heavy weights: she is currently in training for her first powerlifting competition. If she had to pick one fictional character to hang out with, it would probably be Chloe from Becoming Chloe and Always Chloe.

<< 2 poems by Chrissy Montelli                              1 poem by Devin Stabley-Conde >>

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