Saturday 8/30: Day 1 of SF Zine Fest: start your day off right with a stroll through the many wonderful DIY creations of Bay Area artists. Free, 11 a.m., San Francisco County Fair Building.

Mark Cronin’s book release redux for Dear Ghost of My Love, published by The Gorilla Press, with Ctch Bsnss, Kate Robinson, and Joel Landmine. Hosted by Jason Schenheit. Free, 7 p.m., E.M. Wolfman General Interest Bookstore. – Alexandra Naughton

two of my picks in Notable SF on The Rumpus


THE BIG MOVE, a new poetry collection by Trevor L. Sensor, published by Be About It press in August, 2014.

Trevor writes about the mysteries of adolescence, of the kind of love that makes even sleeping on a basement couch seem appealing, on death and remembrance, on losing love and finding solace in the memory of a hand.

read it now, for free as always:

new from beaboutitpress

You Could Never Objectify Me More Than I’ve Already Objectified Myself.


asnakethateatsitself asked: a false sense of security. a sense of dislocation

i have a bad memory

Was this in a story I read? Was it in a movie or tv show I watched? Did I dream this? I can’t remember.

Someone says this to another person, as an insult: you know, a bee does a waggle dance to let the other bees that he has a message to communicate, but if he keeps dancing the other bees sting him to death.

A false sense of self
A false sense of self entitlement


I’m down with guilt

I can get with regret

but jealousy is a stupid fucking waste of a feeling

Sundays on the Ave ›


They wait

At the hospital on Girard

in the morning air, suspended

Occupying hands, chain smoking

Hoping to get through the day

They wait

At the pizzeria on the corner of 4th

The fader stumbles down the avenue

in the morning air, suspended

“I’ve been trying to quit…



ONLY DOGS GO TO HEAVEN, a collection of poems by Kendall Sharpe written between 2011 and 2013.

Click here to read/download the collection!! For free, as always.

Thank you, Kendall!!!

Collection of poems by Kendall Sharpe


lol I am too permissive

This older man where I work asked me if he could touch my hair yesterday. He asked me this after pointing at my kombucha bottle and saying he likes that too. I said uhhhhhh but then I agreed.

People have asked to touch my hair before, but not really since I was a kid, and usually by other kids. I guess friends like to play with my hair, these days.

I didn’t look, but he stood over me and pet my hair for about twenty seconds while I sat at my desk. It was weird. I said, ‘that was pretty weird, bill.’

He used to be a golf instructor and looks like a grandpa.

#real life  #lol  #poetry  


SOME DISTANT FIRE, by Jeremy Hight

new short story published by Be About It press

James had coordinates now. Numbers. He also somewhere out there, naked and maybe a cliff or hole, he had a place. It was crazy he thought. The next thought however came again like a train with no brakes or some other such metaphor. This repetition surely might mean something by the very nagging nature of it. It varied but was something to the effect of do something weird for once, commit to this random thought you coward. It could just be another dead end, another thing he would have to just tuck away and move on. It also could be something random for once amongst that litany of crappy world news and low buzzing anxiety everyone he knew that admitted to it also felt like gas in the belly, a dull hum out the window from something out of reach.’


Title: Episode 5: "Cassandra Dallett" Artist: That Lit Podcast 216 plays


That Lit Podcast | Episode 5: “Cassandra Dallett”

Bay area writer and author of Wet Reckless Cassandra Dallett joins host Alexandra Naughton for an engaging discussion about mental illness, the writing process, and growing up.

Cassandra is a boss.


BE ABOUT IT presents: Riley Michael Parker, Parker Tettleton, and Diana Salier.

Today at 7 pm at EM Wolfman Books at 410 13th street, Oakland, CA.

be there

I like how I don’t even have to tell you what I like

because you like it too

#poetry  #lol  




We mark the efforts of our fruitless passions

in quarter time revelry

Another drag of cigarette tastes of

futile hopes and dream time prophesies

Each exhale a letting go of the need

to be validated in a world maintained

by clean handed elders

So much like children existing in a

state of primal vulnerability

if only to thwart the effects of

an encompassing communal anxiety

Our G-ds held on in the backs

of our throats

A dying fire whispering

            “please” and “no more”

into the empty spaces of the dark

that we can’t fill with

twisting limbs and small talk

Their cries of mercy to be put out

but, we gather running jokes for

kindling and fan the flames with

future fantasies where we’ve all

got it made

So I open my throat

Open it so far backwards

my eyes roll reverse and lips peel back

so thunderstorms move through

and G-d can sing me beautiful

So I can sit with the Moon

under fallen hearts where Her

hands leave burns on my body

in places where the World has

left it feeling cold and alone

So far back in my head I can

no longer reply ‘no’ when asked if

there’s anything I need because

what I need is for the

sun to explode

I need to be held in arms that are

so big I can’t tell where they end

and my eternity begins.

I need soothed by whispers that

speak secrets the spirits and I

can share with the rustling leaves

and the flowers screaming into bloom

because it hurts so G-d damn much

to be worshiped for your beauty

Lusted after for your smell

picked to slowly die

and never be asked if you’d much

rather be another color

or some sort of ivy

or some kind of thing

better suited to live under rocks

I need a way to make the light hurt less

the soothing pitch of near dark

soft hue mixed swollen on the

soles of my feet

I had one of those not so sober

fits of weeping last night

rocking sobs and flowing snot

I cursed G-d at length

(why have you forsaken me?)

in lieu of folding in upon myself


Caught in the slipping veil of ego-survival

I rolled to a stop on the ground

rock laden and caked with soil

wet faced and screaming defeat

Lost in spaces between knowing too much

and never being able to rest

I tried to sing my legs into roots

steadfast and unyielding

I settled into the soil and my mind

numb fuzz and heart heavy

went away

In vision dreams

my flesh, divided and flayed

my head, fell sideways

From my voice spouted a sapling

the roots spread to my hands

locking them in prayer

My G-ds, they whispered

            ‘rest’ and ‘be’

and in their leaving

a cooling breeze washed me gentle

and I rested

Amarah Selaphiel, in the words of Gabbi Bugg, is a “Beautiful Transdrogyne who performs the most literal interpretation of dumpster diving without hesitation. Meowluminati whistleblower with a penchant for existential coffee and noise music. Prefers beautiful decay with a cigarette and a knowing wink.” Follow her on tumblr here.


Look out for the next feature tomorrow & pls keep our organizations in mind:  the Sylvia Rivera Law Projectthe Audre Lorde Project, and Black & Pink.

Check out the posts that have already gone up here and here.