#in quire

[chesterhopewell]

Heather Lang and H. L. Hix are co-editing a fun project over at In Quire. "Picture Postcards" features snapshots of beloved places, accompanied by a brief note about the location. The style of the writing varies as much as the featured locations. Take an awe-inspiring tour around the world without going anywhere. Be sure to check out my entry in the "Picture Postcards" project. Bon voyage.

[etruscanpress]

Jonathan Weinert sat down to talk with H. L. Hix during the AWP Conference in Seattle, Washington, on March 1, 2014. They discussed Hix’s latest book of poems, As Much As, If Not More Than, just released by Etruscan Press, as well as his online project IN QUIRE and his critical project Alter Nation, forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse, from which some of his recent poetic material derives.

[micropress]

I have printed and stapled FOUR! copies of In Quire Winter Issue 1 "We are One of Each Other"

If you want one, email me your mailing address or something! micropress.tumblr.com/contact

Also, if you would like to help, you can try and print off some copies yourself using the .pdf here: micropress.tumblr.com/catalog, and don't hesitate to ask questions or send me things!

[micropress]

In Quire: Winter 1, "We are One of Each Other"

This is In Quire, a 'zine for me and you and anyone else that wants to. A 'zine is just a small, handmade book or pamphlet that is usually independantly produced. A quire is a word used to refer to a regimented amount of paper, a fragment of an idea, a thread in a tapestry, collated and then sewn together to make a book. To enquire is to ask a question is to seek an answer, but is the question independent of the answer independent of the question? Every word is a drop in a bucket, every breath is a breeze, and someday I hope to be able to watch those ripples become waves.   Here, I have collected a few brilliant works ( and some of my own stuff) in a single quire, and maybe one day I will have enough of these for a single book, a rather petty representation of the churning star of experience. I will never call you deserters. I will always hear your words. I will not fear you. I will fight with you. I will never join the silencing force. We are One of Each Other. 

-Thom Wanton

"There are a thousand people masquerading as you in the heads of all the people you have ever met. How does that make you feel?"

There are No Trees Left to Herd Felix Dockhand Burnsuage

There are no trees left to herd. So people put saddles on the Ents, And make them plow fields. The Ents might not care... At least they feel useful again. We might even start breeding them in captivity.

-i'll cut my arms off- Jessie Rankin

It's 1:54 am.

I'm awake. Asleep. Awake. I don't even know anymore.

I've made sure everything is on mute, and I can still hear it....

No matter. It's just my imagination. Just my imagination, yellow eyes pressed up against fogged panes of glass. Just my imagination. Just my fingers striking these keys, the only thing I can hear is the beating of my own heart. It's starting to match the other noises in the background. It's only my imagination. Things like this don't happen in real life. Eat, sleep, fuck, flee. Change skins on command. Shit like this does not happen in real life.

None of this is real. yellow eyes pressing through my sliding glass doors. a whole army beyond the line of trees. a whole fucking swarm of them. I'm hallucinating. I'm dreaming. I haven't eaten in three days. I'm a hallucination. And now I'm talking to myself out loud, my voice a strange whine. Don't even know what I'm supposed to sound like. I think i might be babbling to drown out everything else. 2:18 am. I have to be asleep. I will wake up to the sun on my face. will I have a face when i wake up? I think i will have the same jaundice as the outdoors. If my phone rings right now I'll know the alien buzzing coming through the lines like the back of my hand.

Or like the inside of my veins. Didn't i tell you that i'm an interrupted genius? Cold now. My fingers are turning colors that don't belong on human flesh. did i forget my tetanus shot again? i always do that. accidentallyonpurpose. the rust scares me. it's yellow and false and unsettling.

Our Name Anonymous

Our name is the sound of the waves heard from under the ocean, and the silence between cars on the highway. Our name is the joy of trees in the forest at the first sunlight, the water boiling, the glass window being forged in firey tumult. Our name is the crash of that window shattering, the sigh of the steam like the scythe at work, and the robins flowing north to south. Our name is the walls around Jericho falling, our name is the bucket falling down the well, our name is the feet of ants marching. Our name is the crinkle of blister-package plastic, pulled from plastic coated cardboard, and the mold that won’t grow there. That is as empty a bucket I ever describ

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If you would like your work featured in In Quire, please email submissions to [email protected] or visit micropress.tumblr.com/contact If you would like to print your own copies of this: .pdf

Thank you for reading, and thank those for sharing.

[micropress]

Print this out, trim the dark parts off the edge, and punch holes where designated by the dark circles. Then, post them places and waste  paper! Or, just reblog this a lot.