Cold Press



"It is impossible to separate a cube into two cubes, or a fourth power
into two fourth powers, or in general, any power higher than the
second into two like powers." - Fermat


Damned if you do or don't, drowned if you sink in it, condemned to
burn if you think to float, we recursively scape our own languorous
diagrams. So many ends apparent, but a finite enumerative stating of
the crystal habit dictae hold. This Heliopolis we made together can
not be split evenly, it must reconcile its rupture to a winner and a
loser. The tragedy of area relationships has everything to do with it.

For me, it embodies a single moment, this function. Perfectly. That is
to say; the single moment, where you remember a handful of moments,
where infinity trembles, and you love each one for its own
singularities. That single moment where I feel empty, like I cannot
live again, and I am stunned by my own obtuse insistence on drawing
breath. That's why. Anagram to nonagram, this is where it all catches
up with its tail, moebioid in Diophantine overlap.

It spirals downward, ever. Combinatorically speaking. I stand out by
theory ale, here- for this boggling equation, there is an iterative
sum. You can add it up in feathers, subtract it down in prime
triplicate. The involvement of computation is moot to our arithmetical
bearing. I stand up in cascading tumults, every day leaves me supine,
wanton and shattered. I watched two birds fucking in mid-air this
morning, and learned something about binomial coefficiency.

She wore a mooney countenance
of grim satisfaction
The flaw in thought process
at knowing where the end of the line was
Her juniper larcenies, crushed
My rhetoric, her exemplify, our litany of error
A gargoyle mask to frighten the heathen sun back into dusk
Bullets for teeth in a broken crown
a grin to shoot the snipe out of every albatross
Her jaw's wired into a plush smirk
A garland of inciteful words
to wrap around the insight of naked deeds
aerial plotting of coursework for two
As she saunters out of my memory
she is stiff, tall, proud and straight
No longer bent by the weights
of happiness and hope
There is a shadow on her chest
where her heart's adorned by an imagined bruise
It will disappear for good
when she pushes me out of her light




Bête Noir




Took my heartmeat
in stride
from a cornucopia of disorders
Damaged goods' piecemeal offering
triple-stitched
in mountain-thin air
It remembers lilacs and pale ale
frosty mornings even in July
Recalls low moons and rustling water
woodsmoke- everything
but how to beat alone
Stole my spine
left me chin on chest
Like the day I tore the tubes
from my own throat
wretching blood in cursive spatter
unaware of my surrounds
Burning dropped petals
in modern Rosicrucianism
Tainted my thinkings
with a pleurisy
expelling hell from the lung in my head
I've got screws loose now
and the sand's getting all over my place
Come back, angel
Hold me like the beast I am
When and where things
are more dreamed than not




Her Name is Unimportant



Beauty and anathema
eyeliner
grease-paint
concealer
Where did your face go
Who are you under
blue bulbs of blacklights
She'd just stand there
hide human error in legions
cuts, scrapes
carpet burns
track marks
Barely moving to the music
Kind of swaying
feet cemented to hardwood
a spectacle unfolds
snugly nestled at the rack.
Hoping, would-be captains
beer in hand,
harem of sweat stained dollar bills
to foray De Gama
Colombus
Kirk
into the thickets of their unknowns
Languid kelp curves
a sargasso sea in Wisconsin January
Lake Michigan pools around your ankles
as her sounds well into your eardrums
Washingtons take flight
gathering at the hip
in spaghetti strand thong wings
glorious wings of refusal
Earth's true angels levitate
like so much smoke
orbiting the pole
like a one hemisphered globe
so much smoke, so much smoke
and her eyes
though they were brown
would eat you
with tired blueness
They told stories of the sea




Isaac Seal is an odd one, but at the root of it, a good egg. He has been published in a few places [though not nearly as many as he's attempted to be], but in real life he's a professional chef of the almost famous variety. He loves food, and words, and music. These are the things he creates. He recently moved to Sacramento, California, and is looking for a nice restaurant to call home. He loves his life on the good days, and hates it on the bad ones. This, he suspects, makes him much like everyone else. He is very good at shooting pool, and scrabble. He is very bad at bowling and long division. He is now terribly tired of writing about himself in the third person, and is going to make a sandwich instead.