e.d.i.o.p — anonymous submission: impatient inaction… / Intensive Outpatient / elicits reactions; / emotions still latent…
impatient inaction…
Intensive Outpatient
elicits reactions;
emotions still latent
yet forming brain factions.
long calculations,
improper fractions,
won’t quite satiate
but might help gain traction
in preoccupations
long out of fashion.
Portraits — Jacob Vandersloot (for more, follow his instagram @jakesloot)
Poem: “ode to my legs” (anonymous) for years i left you chained / like black bodies swaying in the sea / why was i so ashamed? …
for years i left you chained
like black bodies swaying in the sea
why was i so ashamed?
thick slabs of mahogany
obatala painted you onto his canvas
and oya danced you into exhaustion
memories wrapped in flesh
as we grow old together
you remind me
of my father
a quiet power
that frightens the
world around you
you are black coffee
in the morning
warm to the touch
addictive
at the bottom of the ocean
when the pressure was deadly
you cradled me
and whispered
bittersweet songs
until we reached the surface
you are
majestic
i love
you
i’m
sorry
POEM: “pig meat” by Jasper Snow Individual economy as image reaction in the / Collective-conglomerate; physical-systems / of glut and spectacle know
Individual economy as image reaction in the
Collective-conglomerate; physical-systems
of glut and spectacle know
Producer as consumer-conglomerate: broadcast.
A single reaction is totalized: broadcast. Quality
Is a niche that
determines consumer dissemination—
Digested producer, outgrown: system
Feed-markets, commerce as data. Millenia-
empirical premonitions, tact and
Hallmark manipulating. Social capital and
Value dismemberment; full scale, self-selected
Concept, it manipulates environment
To sedative. Sham-trick: make necessary
Through production the subordinate good,
it is good (dissemination).
The international-historic as pioneering
thought-language through post-
Digitally rapid distribution.
It radicalizes accruing
to flung space. Altered advance,
By which means slights,
and conceptions of difficult
Images, strange lies. Wide pronounced
Dominance and the slighted ambitious,
The circulation-distribution
Outputs set on
escape-creation or burglarized
objects by vehicle-medias,
Giving entrance to fraudulent
and shorting diversions. Bogus
escapism— cognitive.
Creating illusion,
Backhanded packing boxes, channels of traps.
This is the illusion supplanted to debase
By fluent demagogues;
a knack for slight beyond
Circumvent. Con-tale in mythology:
The fraud evolution of object as the inability
Of strength. Highly economical
And with global harnesses; heaping,
Inflatable, object-realms
Create thoughts valued as the public ownership:
middlemen and objects of the reputable
Gatekeepers: taxidermied, volatile, and who’s
Penchant product-wit is purchase
And is feeding-action— is incorporation,
the innocent ploy,
Steeped in the wash. A shape-shift
Of image and provocative filter,
A selection-age ridden with burnouts
That suggested saturation, were viewing for
zeitgeist: functional.
Systemic mockery in urbanity,
The concentrated subversion,
as sham-industry. Relegated, bizarre,
The self-consumer circulates infinitely,
Unknowable and pure immortal. Eyes
The image that reproduces in masses, sears
well tempered products to eyes. Conman
Iconoclasm, free-wheeling deep-feeding,
Engineered to result engrained fool-mass that
mocks sensorial. As flitting image.
Poem by alum, Daniel Hass (BM 2017) when does the mourning dove croon. / the people in the trees. / there are people in the trees!
the musician
when does the mourning dove croon.
the people in the trees.
there are people in the trees!
pantonal!
you do scales once a day,
—besides,
what’s the point of trying to
word it all.
Reginald is a new student-edited literary and art magazine. It is named after Sir Reginald Eunice Arthur Wallace Roderick Rochester, revered patron of the Juilliard School.
Reginald, our very own literary & art magazine, is named after Sir Reginald Eunice Arthur Wallace Roderick Heath Rochester, revered patron of The Juilliard School.
Go forth, peruse and enjoy!
13 year olds huffing paint in South Dakota
whose mothers were born on the reservation
who steal baseball cards from the candy aisle
vengeful fists
wearing persecution like cloying, cheap cologne
knees and knuckles cool and red as clay
silk black hair bluntly severed with children’s scissors
overalls
chewed down chipped glitter fingernails
grass stained faces
soft eyes like overturned earth
magic marker tattoos
plastic lace chokers
hands that press firmly into the sky
and pray for rain
Skin’s Truth
We spread our fingers wide against each other’s,
palm to palm like a shared prayer
Her hands are long and slender,
with deep, carved out knuckles
digits twice the length of mine.
My six year old hands look thick and pale
in comparison.
I ask my mother why her palms are
the color of my hands,
when the rest of her is a rich
glowing chocolate.
She tells me that in Heaven
God spray paints all his children.
They lean up against a wall–
criminal frisk style–
and he gives them their color,
save their palms and bottom of the feet.
I ponder this bit of magic
and trust that it must be true.
Because mothers never lie;
mine doesn’t even know how.
Arm Me
Exist! There he stood
The man in shining armor
Insist! Where comes he
But from the land of ardor
And zeal took we thus to
Persist! With laden hearts
And shaking fists
Kiss the ground
The holy ground
Fall face down
The crown of the one who sent me
Spoke and with the sword
Burnished the words
In gold upon the souls of the listless
We drifted on the pale fire that was sent
For forty years it came and went
Pitched in the ditch of tents
On the bloodied stake did you reside
With the saccharine cloth of my wasted cow-hide
You beckoned me to come inside
For a little while
…Peaceful drowned in paradox/Of truth buried wanton…
i.
Deepening blue
colored of all winds
the sad sorted freedom fighter
Peaceful drowned in paradox
Of truth buried wanton
beneath the depths of the big blue
Caressing the underbelly of disbelief
In how caging coexisting with free
Will be
Always.
ii.
Want of space to mine make
For golden hush for fuck’s sake
To waltz or perambulate through mine threshold
Into tailored expected scent kept in cold
To po to settle to breathe in
Cognizant of the simmering of sin
Without any penny in undesired interruption
To my pristinely defined chaos corruption
In this kettle mine, habitat shrine
Chosen particulars of my being, benign
Oftentime not so—but to liberate lift
Would force less down mine throat to sift.
iii.
“What goes up must come
(Crashing plummeting riding inevitable
roads two: appreciation & destined deviation—
Seek of repose in hide from innerworkings.
The void unthere unknown
The path to which hangs me foraging
Gorging to fill black holes
To be left heaving imploded)
down.”
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