Jackson: My name is Jackson. I'm an editor and partner here at Everything Matters Press, and today we're talking with Qey, a Tampa-based writer, filmmaker, and photographer whose work is deeply tied to themes of performance and poetry. Their work also engages with illness, identity, and
While heading south toward the Mojave National Preserve, my friends and I noticed a strange glow crossing the sky and joked that it must be a spacecraft coming to pick us up. Aliens, we called ourselves. The four of us—from the Philippines, Singapore, Brazil, and China—were the only
I'm piecing together an old bike sorting through parts in a bag drawing out dried up leaves, scraps of old plastic and, sometimes, the part I need. My hands are smudged black the smell of it all, the cold metal, the damp air, the used grease, fogs up
A: I'm trying to mess with my audio. If you can hear me, do a reaction, a little Zoom reaction. Okay, can you hear me? J: Yes, I can now. A: Can you hear me? Okay, nice. J: Yeah, yeah. A: Okay, slay. You're just gonna
Writing group just ended and I'm starving. Should I try something new to eat or will it just be more tacos off the street? Should I eat first or...no...We all know Mexican food is better after smoking a joint. I should roll a joint, then see
I had been chasing him through the desert. I think it was around noon. Lunch time. When had I eaten last? I can't remember. It seems all I have ever known was the pang of hunger and the drip of my saliva onto the dry road beneath my
It is 5:30 am and I am holding a dead ovenbird in my hand. I stand on a sidewalk that has just been washed by the workers who come out before the sun, clearing business facades of the trash and shit and death that accumulates there at night. No
1. While in the grips of anxiety, it often feels as though my body would decompose into a sweltering swarm of electric eels. Walking down the street, they would slink off me as would slime off cold marble, only to reemerge from within my body out of my orifices once
1. In the muted light of this Monday’s morning, tucked still, beneath my sheets and the lingering narcotic fog of the night before, I reach for my phone, open Instagram, and scroll. Seconds later, betwixt a short video essay on the cultural history of the raccoon, and a pair