p7trash
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Counter Cultures
Some lesser-known identities of a counter, however you define it, recognizing the dangers of slipping into the full absurdist guerrilla art territory of #notmakingsense.
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On Umwelt: Experience as a Shapeable Thing
What if we can find control over our experience of the world just by shifting our attention?
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Counterculture: Full Design
The Nass is a rebel without a cause. A tortured creature. A little dog with a big bite. This week, we’re counterculture.
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Anthracnose: An Exodus
Leaves cascade from the oak, to which my parents swore, stems diseased by my sins? I trace the veins anyway, hoping they will lead me to their quiet, promised land. It lies within a barren forest. where whispers linger, taunting as they pray for me. I am lost, trying to find my breath. I…
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A Cacophony of Swallows in Flight: Full Design
Check out our newest issue in collaboration with the Blacks Arts Collective here, or pick up a copy somewhere on campus!
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Auction
introducing the body size thirty-four B tits, forty-four round hips slim twenty-nine-inch waist thick thighs I used to once hate a gap so spaced that words fly out of it a forehead so big you could play chess on it brown skin, lips thin height small, not tall disclaimer of the body I can’t be…
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Blackness in Residence
The Amistad sails a silent scream across the sea. In its wake, a dark tapestry woven with violence. Mouths in the hold lie open, inaudible, begging for the nothingness that is everything. On this ship, terror lurks. A violence of abstraction separates Black from man and kills him twice, Discarding his body like dead…
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Love Is
Love is an expression simple to understand but tough to maintain. It’s like a symphony of instruments created individually but only complete together. The catch being that the notes are obscure. The sheet music is unscripted and all that’s left is You. Its blind conductor who was given no directions. You see, love comes without…
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A Restaurant in Hayward
Mmm, linoleum floors, my favorite, I think. It’s 7:30 am, according to the analog clock on the wall, and I’m officially pissed at being up this early for my driver’s license exam. “Window 10 is OPEN!” an older lady screeches, and I lung forward. She wears glasses that hang from a cord…
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Trapped
The tracing of distress tailored against the coarse lining ripples and bumps engulf flickers of dim hope. The clashing dissonance overwhelms one boundary, edging to the brim of its inverse. The tracing persists. Wrenching and tugging at seams of a suffocating cloth proves pointless. A bloody mind splitting battle entails a victory lap to celebrate…
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