In April

we’ll have our wedding

on Coney Island

we’ll spike the punch bowl

and everybody will attend

wouldn’t it be splendid?

we’ll grow old


Valium under

our tongues

and waltz with

the light that slips

between the drapes

of our shitty apartment

on Shady Lane

we’ll renew our vows

on Pluto where

everything is

black & white

and I’ll say

you look stunning

even in the

absence of

pigment and light

alex james pitta



We climbed on to the roof so we could smoke our DMT in peace. Ethan had gotten the hallucinogen from a coworker who had extracted the drug from tree bark or something (I never quite got the whole story out of him). He held out the DMT so I could see it. The dime bag was half filled with a pale orange powder, and though it didn’t look like much, DMT is not a drug to underestimate.

He sprinkled a pinch of it over a bowl of weed and handed me the pipe. Hallucinogens always make me nervous, especially after a drawn-out bad shroom trip I had at a reggae festival. But because DMT hallucinations only last about twenty minutes, I knew I wouldn’t be locked in a bad trip for too long, should it come to that.

I lit the bowl and inhaled. The DMT tasted like a stale fart and I held it deep in my lungs until my vision started to warble and my body began to sink into the scratchy roofing. Everything was alive and breathing. The street was shooting the shit with the sidewalk and two bicycles chained to the same pole were making out and the avocado trees were ebbing and flowing in a magnificent waltz.

I watched eagerly with my knees pressed up against my chin. The sky was the purest azure and the current of the Pacific Ocean was tranquil and sapphire. Both were smiling at me, saying “This is what you’ve failed to notice.” The soot, dead pine needles, and cigarette butts on the roof were swirling, weaving into symmetrical shapes that cascaded into themselves. Everything bellow me on Bermuda Street was billowing and surging in a staggering masquerade. I was giggling hysterically, like a child riding Space Mountain for the first time. Not because anything was funny, but because I felt like a blind man who could finally see. I was Bartimaeus and DMT was Christ, laying his hands on me as he passed through Jericho. And as the drug began to fade everything gradually fell static, as if the world around me turned to stone.

-Alex Pitta  

Wendy St. Clair

There she was again

rapping at my window panes

with an umbrella

tucked under her arm

a grey kitten on a leash

and half a bottle of gin

Let me in

or I’ll crack your windows

she giggled, and I sighed

because this was the fourth time that week

and I’m allergic to cats

but I always gave in

Bring out the shot glasses, she said

Put on a Doors record

I looked for L.A. Woman

and she applied red lipstick

using a butter knife

as a makeshift mirror

We sat in silence

while she sparked a milky spliff

and strung her spidery legs across my lap

And as I watched the smoke

creep through her lips

I knew this was the woman

I’d drown myself in