habitat, the doom issue

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après l'ouragan

walter mackey is a 22-year-old boy from canada that likes sour candy, ice cream, high fives, high times, and lesbian orgies. tumblr: judgejudyisprobablynotavegan.tumblr.com twitter: @walter_mackey @walterunedited

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i hate autocorrect so much i hate autocorrect i just do it doesn’t help when i need it it only helps when I don’t need it “probly” turns into prostitutes or just stays the same and “y’alls” turns into yelp, which I didn’t even know was a word i would tell you more, but there is no time the battery on this thing will die, like my ipod because I had to keep correcting autocorrect but seriously, i would turn autocorrect off, but I need it most of the time

sania habiba is probably less than half your age

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B Man A Post-Ejaculate Half-Wit enters the 7/11 He’s in heaven Remembers the unsuccessful flirts Asked a Father how old his daughters were That ended surprisingly well Right in front of him is an Altoids box Clean spearmint helps freshen up his life Clean spearmint reminds him of his childhood uncorrupted before he corrupted it Puts it in his pocket, he pays for nothing Outside the 7/11 he remembers the after party Drinking the groom’s wedding gifts, Patron, wine, whatever he could find Everyone invited him back People laughed at his Karaoke rendition of ‘I can’t get no satisfaction’ Halfway through the song he ejaculated on the ‘OH’ Nobody noticed or everybody noticed Does Karaoke even matter? Does anything even matter? The Post-Ejaculate Half-Wit thinks to himself But not for too long He has places to go Parties to crash Texts to send out connections to forge With a planet he is moderately satisfied with Waits for a train on a platform in a well-to-do neighborhood, the sort of place that breeds his kind The sort of person who has no idea what’s going on and it doesn’t even matter It is a post-manners world The world where people shoplift out of boredom instead of need The world where people hide in bathrooms to avoid paying fare Post-Ejaculate Half-Wit searches for a bathroom And when the time is right As the conductor comes down the aisle Just like the groom came down the aisle He hides in the bathroom Because he owes the world everything Yet is afraid to pay up

beach sloth blogs hard @beach_sloth 

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Beauty Regimen rub salt scrub over that face yours have feel  seawater feel  Mariana Trench feel  sunburn volatile lick   water off your face seawater  you   have performed         magic Jess Dutschmann is going to come visit you some day. She blogs at jessdutschmann.blogspot.com.

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1 2 3 4 Mira Gonzalez [b.1992] lives in Los Angeles, California https://twitter.com/miragonz http://miratortilla.tumblr.com/

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bee killer             You said you had a dream about me last night.             This made me feel guilty because I had never dreamt about you.             Before going to bed, I looked at your facebook pictures and repeated to myself, 'I'm going to dream about you tonight.'             That night I dreamt I was a detective. I had a more experienced partner, a forty-something year old with bags under his eyes, smoked cigarettes, had wrinkles on his forehead.             We were looking for a serial killer dubbed ‘The Bee Killer'.             My partner did not respect me because I got the case through a technicality.

untitled 

imagine being dead but no one knew you were dead sounds lonely doesnt it imagine a person who takes the bus to work who is sad all the time but smiles at you when you look at him   after work he stares at his wall and he tries to imagine being someone entirely different but he cant and so he just stares at his wall after work he likes reading a book about a person who finds addresses of people who he does not know and he mails them letters always a couple of pages long the letters are usually about his dog who only a couple of years beforehand had died of an enlarged heart that was my dog and that was a true story

Theo thimo is a writer. You can read some of his stuff at theothimo.tumblr.com

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Flop House "No, dude, it's a flop house. Just come crash." "Uhm hm." "Yeah, I know, it's a really good temporary place. James and Mariah pay the rent but anybody can stay here, it's a good place. There are, like, seven beds." "You know them, what are you talking about."

"—hold on… I think there is an argument happening… No, never mind. It's fine. Just come, dude." "Okay." Charles hung up the phone. He finished peeing. He could hear Mariah crying from the kitchen. He walked out of the bathroom. Alfonse was mid-rip. He exhaled and said, "Dude, this shit is nuts. Come hit this." - - - Alfonse woke from a nap. Someone was arguing. He sat up on a mattress that lay on the floor underneath a mural of profanity that Mariah and James had painted one night on the wall of the living room. The room was hot, there was light seeping in from a window which was covered with a thin piece of translucent pink cloth. Haze. A ceiling fan spun slowly and made soft, staccato noises. He crawled to the edge of the bed and picked up a bong. Someone flushed the toilet. The bathroom door opened while he was taking his first hit. It was Charles.  "Dude, this shit is nuts. Come hit this." Charles walked over and sat down next to Alfonse. He took a hit and agreed. - - - Laina lay on the floor in the attic of James and Mariah's place. She was heaving. She wiped her face, caught her breath. She sat up and drew her knees to her chest and held them. She saw her reflection in an antique mirror propped against the wall that belonged to someone. Probably James, he had a lot of old stuff. She looked at her face, which was swollen and red. Her hair didn't exist anymore. "What the fuck is happening to me… What happened… What…" She lay back down and pressed her ear to the floor. She closed her eyes and heard people moving around two floors below. - - - "I don't care… I just… don't care anymore." "Why… What do you mean? I don't get it. What's wrong?" "I can't stay here. I need to go. I need to go." Mariah raised her voice and James stood. "What the fuck, James? What are you doing?" "James! What the fuck? What do you mean? You don't care about me anymore? What do you mean?" "I mean I can't do this anymore. I'm going. I'll be back later, I think. Just…" James walked out the door. Mariah began to cry a little. - - - "I don't care… I just… don't care anymore." "Why… What do you mean? I don't get it. What's wrong?" "I can't stay here. I need to go. I need to go." Mariah raised her voice and James stood. "What the fuck, James? What are you doing?" "James! What the fuck? What do you mean? You don't care about me anymore? What do you mean?" "I mean I can't do this anymore. I'm going. I'll be back later, I think. Just…" James walked out the door and down the back steps. He ran down the driveway to the street. He looked to his left and saw the best dressed chicken in town.

Matthew Donahoo (b. 1990) lives in Salt Lake City, UT

http://www.mollysoda.com 

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this is a wednesday, i am 70% hungover, i am not emotional. Sarah Jean is releasing her second book of poetry 'Goodbye Drinks' in October and the first issue of her collaborative poetry magazine 'Parlor' in November.

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cooper goes to costco and kmart

“what do you know about where to get food? where to purchase wholesale?” elle said. “i have money now,” cooper said. “money from where?,” elle said. “banks and things and places,” cooper said. “you need someone to help you, someone that knows more than you. you aren’t chili’s, you won’t be able to make something like chili’s,” elle said. “i believe in myself. i will put my mind to this,” cooper said. “but your mind can’t move mountains or make good tacos,” elle said. “we had a good time with the food truck,” cooper said. “what’s wrong with it?” “just because you like having fun in a food truck doesn’t mean you need to open a taco truck,” elle said.   cooper opened his computer. cooper opened google chrome. cooper typed in “costco opening a taco truck”. a map opened. it was labeled “costco.” cooper punched the numbers into his smartphone. cooper went out to the food truck. “i will go to costco,” cooper said. cooper drove his food truck to costco.   on the highway, cooper rolled down the window. on the highway, someone gunned their car next to cooper. on the highway, cooper heard the words “her our prediction on the upcoming season” on 2 – 6 car stereos.   cooper walked the aisles of costco “can i help you?” a voice said. “i need cheap beef. i need cheap corn tortillas.” “this way,” the voice said. cooper found cheap beef and cheap corn tortillas. cooper bought cheap beef and cheap corn tortillas. cooper bought a long roll of aluminum foil. cooper bought a huge carton of sour cream. “corny corn corn beef,” cooper said. cooper exited costco. he walked to his food truck. cooper put the cheap beef and cheap corn tortillas in the refrigerator.  “feels like this is the beginning, the beginning of something between you and me,” cooper said.   he drove on the highway. cooper passed chili’s.  “feels weird but good. feels like that is my place, the place where everyone knows my name. the place where everyone knows how much money i make. the place where everyone i know has the menu memorized,” cooper said. “see you tomorrow, chili’s place.”   on the highway, someone honked their horn at cooper. on the highway, someone screeched their brakes behind cooper.   “i have only been in possession of this for a few days,” cooper said.

cooper drove the food truck to kmart. cooper parked in the back of the parking lot. “it is not hidden from you, neither is it far off,” cooper said. cooper walked into kmart. cooper walked under a sign that said “men’s clothing.” cooper looked a shirt. the shirt had a brand name on the tag. cooper walked to the underwear. the underwear had a brand name on the package. cooper walked under a sign that said “office supplies.” cooper looked for a chalkboard.  cooper found a chalkboard. the chalkboard said “crayola.”  cooper looked for some chalk. cooper found chalk that said “crayola” on it.  “mix and match dj max mister,” cooper said. cooper continued to walk in kmart. cooper walked under a sign that said “home wares.”  cooper looked at the shelves. cooper looked at the blenders. cooper looked at the knives. cooper looked at the spoons. cooper looked at a face on a coffeemaker package. under the face were the words “jaclyn smith.” “who cares jaclyn smith. where is the good stuff?” cooper said. cooper turned around. he heard shuffling. the shuffling was on the next aisle. cooper walked to the next aisle. an old man with glasses and a red kmart vest was putting crest toothpaste on the shelf.  “where are the martha stewart knives?”  “we don’t have martha stewart anymore,” the man said. “we have jaclyn smith.” “where are the rachel ray knives?” cooper said. “we don’t have rachel ray,” the man said. “we have jaclyn smith.” “your brand validity has decreased in the evaluation of consumers,” cooper said.  “so be it,” the man said. the man was now putting colgate on the shelves. “who the eff is jaclyn smith,” cooper said. “the lady who made all these home goods and clothes,” the man said. “i hate buying name-brand home goods when i don’t know the purpose and/or slogans and/or taglines of the brand or why ‘jaclyn smith’ matters to me. i need a knife. i will cut off jaclyn smith’s head,” cooper said. “so be it,” the man said.  cooper walked back to the knife aisle. he found some jaclyn smith knives. cooper took one out of the package. cooper cut off jaclyn smith’s head.  “headless jaclyn smith knives, cut cut,” cooper said.  cooper put the knives in his cart. cooper put the chalkboard in his cart. cooper pushed the cart. the wheels on the cart squeaked. “squeaky squeaky cart wheels break jaclyn smith’s back,” cooper said.  cooper paid money to kmart. cooper walked under the sign that said “kmart” and went to his car.

Josh Spilker wrote Ambient Florida Position (Kuboa House, 2011). He founded Deckfight Press. Follow him at twitter.com/joshspilker

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2x covers J. Castro/M. Whitten for Habitat by what if everything sucks  Jordan Castro (b. 1992) is an author/musician from Solon, OH. He has a blog [http://animalsorrow.com] and a Twitter account [http://twitter.com/jordan_castro]. mallory whitten writes/draws/sings/works & other things in ohio www.malloryannwhitten.tumblr.com

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ghost month it is the morning where i wake up into your voice which is a lake i want to keep       swimming through the kind of love that i want is  the kind of love that you give       that very same ocean beautiful in the way that one could imagine death to be waters black enough for both of us       to drown in and this is how i learn the meaning of feverish heat that leaves legs running for the shower the same pools stretch themselves over the months in the diffusing light i hold the difference      in your skin each touch making inroads towards the end of this yet past names and bodies still come to mind sinking their teeth into before and after      chanting that there will always be an after          always     as if i could forget each touch bringing us closer to the hours we have never been who knew that you would hold my hand while we planted a time-bomb       willingly       within my spine it was like recalling that vague feeling of detachment sadness that was not informed by the presence or absence of another person   and it was like recalling wanting to remember this version of me   where i push your thumb against the button          because it was one way of saying don't stop      but like all things there is an inevitability to this i know this        what i know hollows out both the hours that i am with and without you             and yet there are times when you nod your head into my arm when you spread your fingers across my eyes and that is when i feel as though i could stay       and not go natalie chin (b. 1992) studies in london @herbonestrcture

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87 in dreams we kiss and our teeth merge together when i awake my lips are touching nothing at all the way i think about you now is like a waterfall high up on a cliff face the water evaporates before it can touch the ground instead of dipping our feet into the glacial waters we sit behind the glow of computers feeling the skin of our bodies moving slowly outwards in layers our pathologies pull us this way, that but never in the same direction there are other people to cling to i pull out ribbons and ribbons of their skin finding nothing underneath because loving someone is something more than flesh it’s the spaces in between us the way you can hold something in your hand without feeling it the way you can feel something without holding it my longing for you is like the deepest part of the ocean stacey teague is a 23 yo ladyperson currently living in the english countryside, can be found online at staceyteague.tumblr.com

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National Anthem

National Anthem from maggie lee on Vimeo.

Maggie Lee is worried about her lack of concrete skills, like theres things she can do but idk. third person is weirdtwitter.com/maggie44

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33.3 :: 'pad of sticky notes on my desk' by <<<<author unknown>>>> review by I AM ALT LIT seems like there's this pad of 'sticky' notes on my 'desk'   <<<<'desk' is a folding table w/ some sort of blue 'cloth' on top>>>>   pink sticky notes yellow sticky notes approximately '6-10' pink 'sticky notes'  on top of approximately '50' yellow sticky notes followed by  approximately '50' more pink sticky notes

<<<<almost wrote 'hellow' instead of 'yellow' seems accurate to 'greet' a stack of yellow sticky notes with 'hellow'>>>>   //   when i ‘flip’ thru the sticky notes am consistently moderately surprised when i hit the ‘yellow’ sticky notes every time every time i am ‘surprised’ seems odd/strangely ‘appropriate’ for this reaction   //   wonder if i write the ‘same’ msg  on a pink sticky note and a yellow sticky note if it is perceived ‘differently’ like if someone thinks the msg has more ‘effeminate’ overtones with a pink sticky note and more ‘forceful’ overtones with a yellow sticky note   seems slightly confusing like don’t judge a sticky note by its color the msg is still the same   don’t judge a sticky note by the color of its paper just by the content of its character   //   naturally want to write on some ‘blue’ or ‘purple’ sticky notes seems like i also ‘prefer’ shaped sticky notes you know like in the shape of a ‘letter’ or in the shape of a ‘cat’ or a ‘coffee mug’ seems that these sticky notes are more ‘relaxed’ and not all ‘business’ these sticky notes ‘fail’ b/c they are ‘square’ thereby hinting that this is still business (ie a ‘square’-type personality)   //   but the possession of pink and yellow colors indicate that the sticky notes are still somewhat ‘fun’    like the sticky notes are in ‘biz-cas’ mode still like to flirt and ‘talk it up’ and ‘overshare’ while doing ‘sticky note’ business   //   yr right yr right this is too ‘low’ of a score someone is asking abt ‘personal’ grudges against sticky notes seems like that is fair generally have a ‘grudge’ against mass-produced sticky notes kind of ‘into’ DIY sticky notes ya know like ‘rips’ ya know like ‘shreds’ ya know like ‘scraps’ indie sticky notes not perfect ‘squares’ seems too efficient let’s rough em up these sticky notes and really ‘show them’  yeh   <<<just ‘wrote’ YEH YEH YEH on another stack of sticky notes, not sure why really>>> I AM ALT LIT is a 'review collective'. I AM NOT ALT LIT is a 'conversationist.' I AM ALT LIT = www.iamaltlit.tumblr.com // I AM NOT ALT LIT = www.iamnotaltlit.tumblr.com // ON 'TWITTER' = twitter.com/alt_lit 

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Looking at your soft warm face smiling sleepily from across the world

what I'm trying to say is basically that I feel something in my stomach that is like honey except if honey were hot and tingly like a ball of honey that is also a sun slowly radiating around in my chest while i look at you smiling at me from half way across the world and it is rolling around in there at first and then it starts climbing up my throat like vomit or a spider, but it's still warm and tingly, and I'm trying to hold it back but eventually it's in my mouth and i can't stop smiling and it's like i'm gonna have to say it or i'm going to explode. you know? willis plummer can eat more than you can. [willisplummer.tumblr.com, twitter.com/willisplummer]

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When I grow up     1.  

When I grow up I'm going to be a ____. Little kids say that all the time. You said it yourself when you were younger. Don't believe me? Ask your mother. You said when I grow up I'm going to be a circus master even though you had no idea what that was. We'd seen some street performers one afternoon and they juggled and rode unicycles and you put in their hat a shiny stone and the lint from your pockets. Another time you said when I grow up I'm going to be a praying mantis, which was very hard for me because you only wore green and I didn't want an insect for a brother. Another time you said when I grow up I'm going to be a truck driver and I thought 'oh yes something sensible' except you got pretty into explosives around that time as well. Another time you said when I grow up I'm going to sell computers like dad and you did.   2.   Only kids ever want to grow up. If you ever catch yourself thinking I want a bag-less vacuum cleaner, crystal martini glasses, a laundered duvet cover, and a lettuce cleaner then you have a long way to go.   3. Mum's in hospital and everyone is very sad. Dad walks around with tiny eyes that at any minute could just slide right off his face, right off the edge of the earth. He says things like 'we knew it would happen but I never knew it would be so hard'. Aunt Molly said he thought he'd be the first to go. Dead people are lucky like that. I think when I go I'll just take my hair out and put my feet up and hold on very tightly to a chocolate biscuit.          Alice May Connolly lives and studies in Wellington, New Zealand. Other writing can be found at her bloghttp://upbsel.blogspot.com

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PART 1   you left yesterday. when I got home, I looked for something you might have left behind; all i found was a pube in my vagina and some hair clippings in the bathroom but, everything in my apartment reminds me of you. i am eating crackers and cheese and a coke for breakfast and watching a frasier marathon, wearing your t-shirt. i am not crying. weather.com says it is raining outside at both of our homes. it just looks foggy here.   PART 2   it is raining again and i don’t think another night will stop my sore throat or my flaking hands and i don’t want to live in this apartment without you the sheets on my bed are dirty but i hate the thought of changing them, because you slept on these sheets and you’ll never see this place again the whole town is in mourning for you my earwax tastes different so do the carrots in the fridge; the water is running hot for you, my period won’t come around at all this wasn’t a woman’s poem until then or it was or it wasn’t i don’t like it when i can smell the other people’s meat through the walls carolyn decarlo is an ancient and unseemly gentleman [lostpuppycam.tumblr.com]