AlterLandEscape: sculpture, video and multi-channel installation works by John Tronsor, May Wilson and Centa Schumacher that remap the height and depth of Aggregate Space Gallery’s physical landscape.

from the chapbook save the monsters (2015)

by Nico Peck

i seeped w/ weak indifference

sank below ground

a light

a lantern in a culvert

this land rots

in the heat

till finding day night

and sleep

through storms and earthquakes

i dreamt

the taste of copper

walked under

dry skies

and i

i, when calm and strong

listened to my sleep talk

my rest, low and close

i knew where to go

under high Polaris

clear charnel marked w/ prayer

tame, i sat – quenched & awake

and then my heart filled

then my hands worked at the rock

and the tree

nearby, a heron stood

still and grey,

tree and rock

at work

hands, my filled


stirred w/ thirst

sat wild

and unmarked

the rock &nd the tree

the tree and the rock


the oak and the rock

what is thrown


from my mouth

to save chimera

to save us monsters

the oak and the stone

the stone and the oak

who would be slain

by fear thrown

who would save the trans*

from their subduing
“toward thou I will bend my bow

and speak an oath” – after Pindar

when in the forest & having a dream

of a silvery dragon

emerging or somehow growing out of my torso

the dragon

of my habit, tempered

by old desires left to rot

some say “dragon” comes from the P.I.E. “derk-“

meaning “to see” or perhaps “clear seeing one”

others call dragons worms

but i have felt the heat

of being seen

the burning away of that which does not abet the traveler

an old longing forges rage, yes

“we know to sing reality, when we will”*

o death of death

*from Hesiod

Cristiana Kyung-Hye Baik, Hazel White & Kevin Killian

limen: Amy Rathbone presents an evolving exhibition of cumulative response with some works created directly on the walls, forming a series of individual dedications.

from the chapbook Polaroid (2015)

by Cristiana Kyung-Hye Baik

{ my agency may take me to the simplest of action }
It was a mild day in June, the heat extraordinary. My
attitude of making good to what was, is damaged. It was
of considerable importance, the way the light latticed
through screens, captured from the open sky. A beautiful
lace. As children, you harnessed words, arriving through
their venom, tension, fraught accumulation. Now who will
record this distance, capture this furthering gap’s shadow.
A ledge now burial-aisle. It has become an impossible
task. Wind sluices the window, against the rotted wood’s
slender support. Are you in duress, in this dance of inequity,
as goes the demand, to “get anything something off
your chest?” For you, apologies are aimed to neutralize
behaviors. Signaling in is light’s late flight softly imprinting
my shoulders. I lie in the grass, troubled by this occasion,
this constructional but delicate fault, a what will happen, a
gesture towards broken glass, the tilting of headlights that
fades at last into the emptied promenade, this demolished

Ben Black, Gillian Olivia Blythe Hamel & Matt Shears

OLD GROWTH: Terry Peterson’s kinetic sculptures on preservation and decay, masculine identity and human inheritance, informed by his hometown logging community

Excerpt from the chapbook Artifacts (June 2015)

by Ben Black


I’m looking at all these dead fish, and they’re looking back at me. That look of horror as I slice them down the middle and remove their heads—gets me every time. That’s why I do it here, in front of the window. Something else to look at, out in the yard. That’s why I listen to the police scanner while I gut—I’ve never gutted in silence so I can’t say the fish don’t say anything, don’t comment on what I’m doing. All I hear is static or human voices talking in numbers. Keeps me from hearing the fish’s side of things. What story would a fish tell anyway?

Sometimes it’s too much. When he brings home a full hanger of them I can already feel my legs ache from the time I’ll spend getting guts all over my arms pulling out bones and piling up heads. Sometimes I think I’ll keep the heads—Put ’em in jars on the windowsill, let them see what I see every day. A change of pace. Something besides the dirty river water and the silty river bottom and the ass of the fish in front of them all day long.

And being in the jars will keep them quiet. If they can speak. Maybe I’ll hear a soft mumble, but it won’t bother me much on most days. Today the police scanner is quieter than it’s been in a while. All I’m getting outside of the gentle flow of static is a few staccato beeps every quarter hour. That’s not enough—I could hear a fish speak easy if he chose to. Turning up the volume only sounds like turning on the tap—more static comes flowing out. I’m swimming in it, immersed in a static river piled up with fish corpses. The water barely has room to slide around us, me and the fishheads, sitting together in the middle, looking for a new view.

Claire Becker, Norma Cole & Paul Ebenkamp

New Paintings: work that speaks to the act of painting through programmed strokes, pneumatic drips, self-aware idioms, layered time, and tactile impersonations

Excerpt from the chapbook, Totally Artless (May 2015)

by Claire Becker

When you get here, let’s tuck my body away.

See, I’m in that space between us.

I always thought of asking my parents,

Why did you name me clear?

Through that space you’ll come to me.

You’ll bring it with you, Claire’s body.

By your touch defined.

By my sharp edges delineated.

Drunk off two bourbons

at the neighborhood dive I’m

the only woman.

The only woman here or anywhere,

the definition.

I am suspended.

It’s like the whole town with their sports clothing.

Yellow for the Warriors, etcetera.

Give us something to hang onto.

Clear up our eyes.

Give us something to hang up.

There when I wake up—

you, the emojis.

Today I’m reaching toward you, Carrot.

My job—I work with these carrots

but my hand can’t do like my mind.

I’m not grounded.

No, I’m floored. I’m scraping the dirt off.

Why is it a good thing

to be transparent? What I want—

it’s always over my head.

I want it All fall down.

Like Ashes, ashes

and I can roll in it,

rub my back over it,

breasts, chest in the air.

Nana K. Twumasi, Jared Stanley & Donna de la Perrière

Excerpt from the chapbook The Beekeeper (March 2015)

by Nana K. Twumasi

It’s not a difficult task. The miniscule cameras and microphones are cheap and easily accessible, and, as most men of his generation can do with technological muscle-memory and a good set of instructions, setting up the feed and relaying it to his computer is “no trouble.” In the weeks since their involvement he’s adopted this phrase. Evie has an old-fashioned way about her; even her name is old-timey—he’s sure one of his grandmother’s friends was also an Evie, one of those biddies with fragile hair and false teeth, drinking mimosas in the garden on a Tuesday morning, dropping obscenities and burping like a teenaged boy. His Evie has collected and speaks anachronisms, like “hooray!” when she’s excited, and “certainly not,” or “how dare you;” this last generally said in jest, but Mitchell gets the feeling she’s used it in seriousness, with that old Hollywood vixen emphasis, flashing eyes and mouth drawn into an impenetrable knot, “how dare you?” Maybe less anachronistic and more British, a culture that to him seems antiquated.

“What would you say instead,” Evie asked, when questioned.

“I’d say ‘not a problem,’ or ‘no big deal.”

“Hm. I can’t see how they’re different.”

“They aren’t, I guess. But it’s funny to hear you say things like that.”

“Oh how dare you,” she’d said, and gulped her wine, and scooted a little closer to him, the friction causing the vinyl-wrapped bench they shared to squeal in protest.

In Evie’s apartment he moves quietly and works quickly, having scouted out the most appropriate hiding places before dinner, while she was occupied at the stove or elsewhere. It was their third date, the serious one, she’d said, because she hardly allowed friends into her apartment, let alone a strange man who’d picked her up at the grocery store. And she was cooking for him, on top of all that. She hoped he’d find a good way to show his appreciation. The wine Mitchell had brought was a start, and his backpack, bulky and full. Were there more treats inside it? She hadn’t let him answer. She’d taken his belongings, and the wine, and stashed them away in their appropriate places.

“I’m not a fan of chaos,” she’d said, “ I don’t like things hanging about. I always try to find the order in everything.”

“So you’re not into entropy, then?”

Evie showed him a genuine smile. “Nice ten-cent word.”

*               *               *               *               *               *               *               *               *               *

To do what he does, he has to be good at reading people, and, by extension, gleaning what isn’t on the page to discover what they are hiding, or what they lack. He hadn’t sought Evie out as with the others. She was a surprise, and he feels particularly affectionate towards her because of this. He finds her innocence staggering, the way she looks at him sometimes, hopeless and hopeful at the same time, like he might save her from something she can’t articulate.