You Are Everyone

Brand new hybrid lit mag, get published people.

If you’re a writer and want to get published, this new online lit mag is looking for submissions. Poets, Fiction and Non-fiction, as well as experimental writing is all considered! We are looking for new writers, emerged writers, dabbling writers, babbling writers, etc.

http://thehollerboxmag.wordpress.com/

Thehollerbox is a lit mag that functions in the digital world and page world. After a few issues have been published online, selected authors from those issues will be printed in a limited run handmade book.

A tree began growing outwards from their television
screen. He believed it to be the hand of God. His mother

said God would never be so brittle, never born of pixel.
He would grow strictly as a steel pillar. The son says,

If that were so, than there are many many Gods and
man has created these many many Gods all across the
world. The mother told the son that the steel pillar

that God would be, would look like metal but be lucid
like water, transient like smoke, thin like a whistle, yet
bulky paradoxically. The son is not young so he understands

what she is telling him. He understands what everybody
already knows or should know or even shouldn’t. Are you

a wise woman, he asks. No. Are you clairvoyant, he asks.
No. Are you this. No. And that. No. Then these and those. No.

She leaves the son with nothing and yet he wants. The tree
continues to grow until it presses against the far wall. He asks

her one more question. He asks it sitting across the trunk of
the anomaly. Should I be confused? Yes. This may be the hand

of God but at the same time it is your own. It has grown as
fast as you have questioned me and I have not disappeared,
but like an answer that fills you with lacking, that pulls from
you the earth that you’ve swallowed, it will recede like intention.

The son has always been there. The mother has always been there.
The tree is television sickness. The tree is a miracle and a thought.

She wants to be her mother, not like her mother,
but her mother exactly. The mechanics of her
rebirth are networked with steel capillary webs
and her skin is still not old enough. Is it weird to want

to be someone older, similar in code, and maternal?
Could the cogs grind the skin into something grainy
until the grain clogs the speech. Speaking of

transformation has her bent into carbon thickness
and she is weak from lack of pressure. Her father

was always home and he loved her. He gave her knee
bounce and praise, paired with free time and dumb inventions.
She fancied her father, and Freud knew it all along. 

If in equi-distance I become a dead
wood, may my discontent grow
beneath me. I am far from holy

though, at times, I find harmony
with watermarks. I am friends with many people younger than myself

and I am still young.

Silver soul-less suckers stole my saddle after knocking back the apple I battled over with the papal authorities in Rome.

It has been prophesied, that technology will cause the collapse of
any advanced capitalist nation, advanced used loosely, and that our fate
is balanced like an egg on a finger, jointed by cogs. In my throat there
is a martian ship vacated by the martian that sat in the martian ship, because,
upon coughing, the engine whirs and I can feel the air chase through the open hatch
swirl like syrup in the center of the machine

and flee. and exhale no martian. no martian in the exhale of my breath nor my
cough. I do believe talk of poverty has scared him further down my throat,
out of ear-shot. No attempt has been made to excavate the saucer from my larynx. 
I have started eating less and losing weight. With my friends I pitch the thought of
our economic doomsday. The artifice of inventors yielding product which needs
no human hands nor brain to come together once the wheels have been kicked

with boots full of feet. I propose cannabis and cloven-hoofed innovation.
We transfigure first. A pulse and a shift, we are dragons, or fauns, mermaids/mermen. Our stomachs spun into organic web of dispensable acid. I imagine what happened to the martian. Did I digest him? Is he drifting
underground with sewage. Did he teleport like a lapse in attention?
What brought him here and into my throat? Was he fearful of his home’s posterity?
Was there an even smaller martian ship missing it’s martian lodged in his throat as
well? I pull back the walls of my apartment and see a fortress, held up by panels
of wood, crawling with a fetid smell. I cough. The whir and swirling. I become hungry and bite my tongue.
 

The fugue that falls is a satin sheet
above your thirsty awareness. Water,
a viscous dirty, trembles like a dog
on your skin. Veins burn emerald in

the strata of wealth. The gold standard
dips itself into a pool of ink. A crutch
carries prophecy, like a relay, looped

like a shell, into schools and bars

saying the same thing. We are destined
to shed like waves of silt, too far from the
water to be carried off, too close
to the city to be kicked in through doors. 

Better to blame sacrilege on the pious
for keeping such unholy standards.  

Submitting to have a manuscript published tomorrow, fingers crossed, leg snapped, luck in a pile of digital paper.