Sophia Marina

DECELERATE

juice my life
to the barrage of memories

if / when
i finally surrender

i know
what will flash before me

even when grasping at
this moment

i’m thrilled
& cannot welcome snow

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


TO DISFLOW IMMEASURABLY W THE LIGHTSOURCE

i know   i   am   mortal.  .  .esp in this gloom.  .  .highlights my entrapment yet.  .  .a joyous one i clutter w the things i love.  .  .slang for beauty.  .  .just want laughter.  .  .tilt my chin up.  .  .empty of elixir.  .  .pleasure eludes.  .  .insert delusion.  .  .i have a sweet spot.  .  . devoid of all.  .  .risqué.  .  .withholding no coordinates.  .  .bikini bod or not.  .  .i look bad in red.  .  .draw too much attention.  .  .to evil.  .  . getting this entangled.  .  .end up in a ravine.  .  .intentionally tracing.  .  .the dna i leave.  .  .

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

MIDAIR FEEL

my countryside, my cliff, my cunt

internal non dark ness

made good by sth specific

tiny is the jugular that

whine or no whine

uninterrupts

what hallucination? what apology?

it won’t stop happening, only to happen agin

what i went for legibly illegibly

became pique this point in the cycle

i reinscribe i

“in the name of

 
 

mild adrenaline

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


SELF-STABILIZER

Fruit of my mood. Core pickled with waiting. One pivot turns into a dance. Blend of awkward moves and flow state. The tune in, the waning, the babe inside me wrestles her peaceful sleep. Is the shelter. Sufficient in structure. Pass thru me like the holy or don’t. Consisting of ultimatums I allow. Each stage of lumination. Its moment of. Lighting up this only room. I don’t.

Centralize time. Crystallize it. Risen yet not yet. The protein twists out its strand. Admit to get one step closer to. The heir. Loom that is able to. Give us a form to. Cling to. Deprived of luster. False swan. I spit. On yr wings.

So span. Confronted by a series of wavelengths. On which one should I be on. Testing connections, what they withstand. This hand wonders about its other. In planar in stellar or caught in. What throes. Whirl of info or. Never above a certain threshold I re. Gurgitate what I in. Tend.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

SLOW MO BARB TO THE

heaven cld sound like heaving

assertion vs. doubt

cliché buildup of burnout of

wtv bastion “love that was

 

compelled in the lugnut of sorrow

to carve a glyph in any available surface (puncture wound bc its true

 

the body’s deep red inaccessible inadvertent

truth and reality lumped together like the meat of crab

all signs are there they ask to be heeded

attach so much significance or not-

 

can never be i’m sorry neutral

we huddle as if the bonfire is there

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I KNOW IT’S FORBIDDEN BUT STILL

 
give me a merry go round upon which to sicken myself

 
 

srry for being so obscene-

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

so little to say now, most of it

(not language

 
 
 
 
 
 

jus prickles
of light
signification

 
 
 
 
 
 

**

SOPHIA MARINA is a poet from the Rio Grande Valley. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in 4×4, Annotations, Variant Literature, Candela Review, and Ghost City Review. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Literary Arts at Brown University.

Tamas Panitz


A HARLOT HIGH & LOW

It’s a shame to look so good in such humble surroundings.
A carriage waits at the fence, or whatever gorgeous young hobby horse
one might have mingled with. Beyond that
damp shapes – criminals and police spies, classic Paris –
invigorate themselves with the hopes one has for pleasing people.
Moths were also unsuccessful as familiar, loving reincarnations –
outside of the folklore of the Philippines anyway – but thank you
for lending me these blurry little kids you like so much,
to watch them shuffle until some clarifying emotion attaches
visionary directions. That is to say, I have put on
my make up and am ready to listen to some microscopic recordings of decay
which turn out to be infinitely scalable
unpleasant service.

What to others might have seemed like a chance for interconnectedness
arrives in a towering monument to the first person singular, extending
the nozzle of its century, holding hostages, becoming more educated, concerning
itself with mundane activities: this was our brush with glamour.
Then a horse that looked like me was suddenly just standing there.
So this guitar does have an evil sister, to wake up my pistons covered
in hair, unable to navigate curious geometrical pattern
that might also be my name.
But what I actually said was,
my estate donated this corridor. Since the beginning
individuals have prospered in an arena of total fairness circled round
by biblical and modern curses like gonorrhea and roller limbo. Metamorphosis follows
like a climbing vine the seasons that splatter the concourse in a tightening spiral,
the shape famous among conspiracy theorists, as an ancillary recording
witnessed by no one. And it goes on like that, researched via meditation…
Fascinating Mr. Panitz, thank you for coming by to check on us. Let me say,

that although we’re often forced to sit back and just observe this stuff, ones self a mere
ancillary recording as I believe has been said, in the psychotic gulf between liking people and
despising them, surfing the autism of the winds of sunset, and – continuing on with the
same sentence – lightning rods in each fist, conversating with hidden gems, looking into the
eyes of virgins, giving freely of both good and bad gifts, soaking in Epsom salts, letting
yourself go, doing a multiple choice test,
worshipping an inverted phallus, transitioning, eating Greek,
trying to use more adjectives, waking up earlier and going to bed later,
transitioning back, narrowing inwardly and expanding outwardly, nearing an inverted
pinnacle, peeing, seeing stars. Although one is forced to merely observe this kind of
venturing availability that feels like a series of left turns or arpeggios or rat kings, there’s
opportunity for private appreciation for what goes unchecked, bearing the quaint
armorial devices of one’s discontinuous consciousness, to hear the passionate
remembrance of lawns over which great landowners once passed.

 
 
**
 
 

When Keats Fucked that Corpse

The flavor of satisfaction leaves one foraging for some horny goat-weed
under an ample moon free for lateral movement. Even though
we’ve come to explore at will, occasional ambivalence quizzes us
with an aura of inexorableness, of stuff just happening.
So that’s pretty much what’s going on here in lieu of quality literature
or similar lubricant to improve the eye-brain-hand circuit’s connectivity.

One nonetheless may hope for some double-hung saloon style entries.
Enter hips first along with the equal and opposite in the coy pond tonight.
Come pumpkin o’clock, come reverse diabetes, come bus driver wanted
you have to wonder where these marmots learned to wield fiery apples –
how could this have happened within the concentric rings of my slogans
unless to eschew responsibility created a liquiform ripple effect.
Your theology is so egotistical you should eat more micro-greens –
the forestry service probably had some kind of a program renewed
one of those minutes that lasted several thousand years in the 80’s.
Without realizing it we’ve addressed each of the elements by name
plus their supervisor, red mud, over by that downed tree has been learning.


 
 
 
 

**

TAMAS PANITZ is the author of several poetry books, most recently Wild Lies (New Books: 2023), and Vesuvio with Joel Newberger and Losarc Raal (New Books: 2023) Other books include Conversazione, interviews with Peter Lamborn Wilson (Autonomedia: 2022), and The Selected Poems of Charles Tomás; trans. w/Carlos Lara (Schism: 2022). He co-edits the journal NEW, which he co-founded. He is also the author of a pornographic novella, Mercury in Lemonade (New Smut Series: 2023). His paintings and stray poems can be found on instagram, @tamaspanitz. His book of essays on forgotten 19th Century American poets, The Sleepers, is forthcoming from The Swan (2024).

Ayaz Muratoglu

An Unwatched Festering
after Laura Riding

The dragon watches the uncluttered landscape
The floorboards see that dark leftover from those who lived here before us
The window sees its catalpa, leafless, under snow
And I my under-bed dust.

As suns see darkening skies
As cartwheels see the underbelly, clouded
As candles hold their lovely wicks,
I cross my vision.

And what wing of all of this?
What precocious dusting?
Dragon—from the Greek root “to see clearly”
doses out of its unmet resting place.

How the cemetery houses birds that disappear
after a single season change?
How the ice cut from this New England pond gets
shipped to India? Who watched it not melt? Not see?

How can frozen water
count its way to the mouth?
How for a morning prayer to dislodge in the throat?
And evening bread to watch the day?

By no other witnesses,
By the oatmeal congealing,
By an unnoticed magnet,
By my closing my eyes to it.

 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 

Rabbits

In the dream, you looked at me from a distance
then ran away

Were you thinking of a rabbit?
The diaphanous underside of the slept-in comforter?

In the other dream, we stepped out of the plane
into a large apartment, and you pet the dog in the kitchen

rolled into the next room, carrying a small pelt to your chest
counting steps to the stovetop.

When I found you later, you were crying
and holding a rabbit, saying:

“I thought you had forgotten,”
and when I woke in your arms

all I could remember was your license number,
blinking, bright, on the wet counter.

 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 

At Night the Wheel

At night the wheel
covers the beachside
each angle turning in time,
tracing its path along a narrow loop:

At night the wheel
crashes into the water
and carries you, small one, away—
someone watches from the shore.
It is dark and you hold onto the salt for comfort
In the house the slats have glued themselves together,
which sometimes scares you, though not tonight.
Adults in the other room eat and occasionally turn window-side.

At night the wheel
turns
and tracks you: a man stands at the door
looking for stars. It is July and the distances
have begun to change with the seasons.

At night the wheel
loops, its mechanics fading. It smells like plants.
Or your wanting. We wait in line. Do you
tire of me? Or catch the whine as it
pulls from my lips? I’m splitting: you can catch it.

At night the wheel
glows: the lunapark fills
and honey, you’re there, too.
My first contradiction has lost its footing:
I told you this, then that, then this other one again.
You’re on the way to the beach and I’m in a cold room
waiting. I lay something heavy on my chest.

At night the wheel
roasts, an animal on a spit
spinning, Ezekiel’s chariot. God
stuck in the turning spindles. Everyone’s here:
they came from the beach
and are sweaty sandy tired tho in a good mood.
In the yard everyone talks—
someone tells me they went to Midnight Cowboy today
and I would like to see it too.
The yard is full of everyone we know
playing a game and they’re about to go on an adventure
right
it’s a dream.

At night the wheel
spins itself into oblivion:
your ice cream cone melts
my toe gets stubbed
there’s blood
no blood
just tears
do you cry when you get hurt right away? Or just after?
Faltering

At night the wheel
tucks itself into bed. What’s in the bed?
No babies, just legs on top of each other
and kisses.

At night the wheel
breaks the banister open,
then falls into this bouquet of sidewalk flowers.
Can you catch them,
or do you turn away at the smell?

At night the wheel
carries you
through the land of ancient Syria, into concrete that
splits open at the sight of green.
You look after a cat in this space:
zooming.
The sky turns purple and you find yourself at the tall point:
there’s ocean and ballpark and a bridge far off,
a teenager has brought you here and your legs dangle.

At night the wheel
rests
its legs spoken for
and belly rubbed

At night the wheel
dreams of a pool: infinite water chlorinated
everyone splashing.

At night the wheel
counts miles
or ribbons—
or eggs—
or small cakes you get at the bakery around the corner—
or closets—
or ferns—

At night the harbors
gather fern spores in tiny envelopes
tuck them into the small pocket of a shirt.

At night the wheel
compresses
colors into drawers
draws the colors
and you wear black
I wear red
will you? Will I?
It is the hottest day of the year
the longest has passed
you are sweaty
so am I
the water is far
when we get to it
you will pull the horizon closer.

At night the wheel
talks about surgery:
in the water the scars look like angels.

At night the wheel
cannot stand it:
the water takes a human and rocks it.

At night the wheel cruises by the bathhouse,
a new year’s edge blurring under angry tongues
vodka with pickles on the poolside
sparing no indignity the spinning shackles you:
ignorant loss
lights come on across the bay.

At night the wheel
dreams of morning,
a chariot pulled across the sky
kitchen filled with last week’s debris
you arrive late and sweating
Ezekiel carries a promise down
far from Moses, right into your bedroom.
Can you catch it?
The water bottle buzzes,
its insides set to light, arms twisting like Greek trees in the story.
Cloud factories set by those who believe in them

At night the wheel
counts you awake: in the dream your eyes heard me
whispering for more
til you said you’d had enough
a beautiful girl in a red dress
tells you to look outside, then arrives with
pomegranates and not peas, telling you she burned the rice

At night the wheel
harbors a secret about your father
all afternoon I sat in this room in Nebraska, staring at a rusting
sewing machine, watching the moth flap at the window

At night the wheel
misunderstands you
twirls the wrong word in its mouth
forgets its promise to its mother

At night the wheel
collapses: you, with your large sweater and hammer
carrying on with weather
was that it? Your tutu burning, plastic melting in the large
metal container. Singing in the shower won’t fix it,
nor will story of the mermaid, its cousin the seal,
collapsing at the sight of a wave crashing on the shore.
Stronger, then, with nowhere to go.

 
 
 
 
 

**

AYAZ MURATOGLU is a poet, essayist, and occasional translator living in Brooklyn, NY. Work can be found in the Poetry Project Newsletter, moero, Hot Pink Mag, Yalobusha Review, and elsewhere. They were born on a Tuesday in April.

Jared Joseph


The Body Politic on Fire

 

The media effort to neutralize Aaron Bushnell’s act of self-immolation in protest against US complicity in and funding for Israel’s siege on Gaza is well under way. It is taking the all-too-familiar turn of isolating his action through diagnosing it as the symptom of a troubled youth with a troubled past; that his self-sacrifice had nothing to do with our country and the state of the world, and everything to do with his mental health and his religious upbringing; that, as a senior active member of the US Air Force which explicitly champions the sacrifice its military members make for their country, Bushnell’s sacrifice does not count as such, and is instead pathological, the work of an “anarchist.” The American media diagnosis of Bushnell as an anarchist with a religious past reveals itself as, ironically and substantially, a national self-diagnosis of a state that produces mental health crises in its citizens, that does not provide adequate or comprehensive care for those with mental health issues, and that for example allows a former president, one who fomented an anarchic uprising amongst members of the extreme Christian right in order to storm the Capitol to overturn the results of a democratic election, to run for president again. To call Aaron Bushnell sick is to betray the sicknesses beleaguering our democracy. While recognizing and honoring the agency Aaron Bushnell employed on Sunday as a choice of self-sacrifice for his country, I also aver that it is this country that has martyred him.

 
 

The extremity of Bushnell’s action is a reaction to the extremity of the context; Bushnell was explicit about this in his video of his self-immolation:


 

My name is Aaron Bushnell. I’m an active duty member of the United States Air Force. And I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest, but compared to what people have been experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, it’s not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.


 

Bushnell identifies himself as part of an American military force that has aided and abetted and armed the Israeli occupation for decades; he speaks in its name, he ascribes to himself accountability for his having served in its name, and he marks this moment as a discontinuance of that complicity. What he is about to do is extreme, but it’s marginal in comparison to what “our ruling class has decided will be normal.” His self-immolation is horrifying, but it is child’s play in comparison to how our country is actively aiding Israel to immolate the so-far 30,000 men, women, and children of Gaza which it has colonized. That it is “our” ruling class, Bushnell’s, mine, and yours, means we cannot disavow him from our community. And if our ruling class has “decided” that the extreme will be normal, then Bushnell exposes the horror of this normalization, of normalizing systematic and widespread military death, by turning it upon himself. In this way Bushnell takes measures to give context to his actions.

 
 

There is a reason Bushnell goes to such great lengths to control his narrative; it is because Western media consistently suppresses the facts on the ground to construct a narrative that supports Israel. Western news articles call it a “war” between Hamas and Israel in order to create a narrative of parity, but Hamas is not a state, and the vast majority of casualties in this “war” are Palestinian civilians. When western news outlets report the number of these Palestinian deaths, it is almost always affixed to “according to the Gaza Health Ministry,” undermining the tragedy. When it comes to reporting Israeli deaths on October 7th committed by Hamas, however, the number 1,200 is reported without any qualifier. It is presented as objective fact, despite Israel having originally reported that 1,400 people were killed, and major news outlets at the time, including The New York Times, having accepted the number without subjecting it to scrutiny. The Oct. 7th attack is characterized as a “surprise attack,” which is a surprising characterization when a territory has been brutally denied sovereignty for 75 years, and when Gaza has specifically had its food, drinking water, and power blockaded by Israel for 15 years, creating conditions that the UN has described as “unlivable” since 2020. News outlets call Israel’s siege an ”invasion” of Gaza, but it is not an “invasion” if Gaza has been occupied by Israel since 1967, and blockaded since 2007. On the other hand, news stories continually invoke Israel’s “right to self-defense,” but never Palestinians’ right to life in the first place. One almost never hears testimony from Gazans because of the frequent power outages and targetings of communications towers, because of their ceaseless slaughter, because Israel prohibits journalists’ entry into Gaza, and because of Israel’s intentional murder of journalists: as of February 28th, the Committee to Protect Journalists confirms 94 journalists and media workers dead, 89 of which are Palestinian.

 
 

Not that this is anything new, or a “surprise attack” from western media: the citizens of the western world have been kept in the dark for a long time about “post”-colonialist projects supported by the United States. June Jordan’s poem “Apologies to All the People in Lebanon” – which refers more specifically to the US-backed Israeli invasion of Lebanon to rout out the Palestinian Liberation Organization in 1982 – is nonetheless “Dedicated to the 600,000 Palestinian men, women, and children who lived in Lebanon from 1948-1983.” 1948 refers to the Nakba, or “Catastrophe,” the violent expulsion of 750,000 Palestinians from their home by the newly Western-minted colonizers Israel; many of them fled to Lebanon. The poem begins on what soon becomes a chorus:

 

I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?

 

And then continues with a litany of what “They said,” i.e. what Israel and Western powers reported in the media to justify their actions, followed by the revelation that this narrative turned out to be untrue:

 

They said you shot the London Ambassador
and when that wasn’t true
they said so
what
They said you shelled their northern villages
and when U.N. forces reported that was not true
because your side of the cease-fire was holding
since more than a year before
they said so
what

 

The use of the past tense denotes a history, an alternative history that encompasses within itself the way western powers narrativized that history, in order to “make history” the way they wanted to. And this is the thing about having power: when someone points out to “our ruling class” that they lied, the “ruling class” has the power to respond “so what.” This is essentially what Joe Biden did on February 27th, when he expressed to reporters blithe unconcern and unawareness as to when a ceasefire might take effect, while eating an ice cream cone. The blitheness of these leaders, throughout time, leads to brutal culminations of these endlessly cyclical histories:

 

They said something about never again and then
they made close to one million human beings homeless
in less than three weeks and they killed or maimed
40,000 of your men and your women and your children

But I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?

They said they were victims. They said you were
Arabs.
They calledyour apartments and gardensguerrilla
strongholds.

They calledthe screaming devastation
that they createdthe rubble.
Then they told you to leave, didn’t they?

 

“Never again” is happening again, here and now in 2024 – the likening of the Palestinians to the Nazis and the Israelis to the victims, authorizing a narrative of persecution in order to legitimize creating devastation, creating “rubble.” Israel now calls Palestinian hospitals “strongholds,” and has destroyed nearly every one of them. Those people inside, and outside, hospitals that Israel kills, it calls “human shields.”

 
 

Why is “never again” happening again, almost exactly as June Jordan describes it, with almost the exact same western media strategies of distortion and obfuscation? To some extent the question is the answer: we are inundated with these horrors about which we are not told, but only shown. There are few titles or captions Western Media will permit which say “US serviceman dies after setting himself on fire in Gaza protest” (Al Jazeera). Instead we have titles like “Airman who set self on fire grew up on religious compound, had anarchist past” (The Washington Post). In other words, “But I didn’t know and nobody told me.”

 
 

On the other hand, the poem, again, is written in the past tense: “I didn’t know” means “I know now.” Knowing these things about what our country does without telling us – without receiving our democratic consent – and where 15 billion dollars of our tax dollars is set to go produces more than just a deep-seated sense of powerlessness.

 

But I am not an evil person
The people of my country aren't so bad

You can expect but so much
from those of us who have to pay taxes and watch
American TV

You see my point;

I’m sorry.
I really am sorry.

 

The degree of helplessness and despair; the regularity of the news cycle and its precise, almost subliminal hold on narratives that bolster the western ruling class; Twitter and Meta platforming pro-Israeli views and decreasing pro-Palestinian ones through their algorithms, or the newspaper, or American TV; living in a time of such extreme efforts by western media to hide from us what’s happening and simultaneously immiserate us through funding foreign and colonizing investments; it’s no wonder, then, that there would be such extreme attempts to broadcast, or to be, something different on the news cycle.

 
 

Why have I spent so much of this essay focusing on a poem? Because ultimately I am writing about the human experience, and what it is like to live in a time where not only is so much of reality mediated to turn into a spectacle we can’t participate in, but also where the reported spectacle so keenly and so harrowingly does not match the reality of the spectacle. This morning, like most mornings, I was listening to NPR, and the story was diving into the depths of how the Gaza Health Ministry reports its casualties. While, as I outlined above, most western media outlets insinuate or outright state that the Gaza Health Ministry inflates its death toll, in a rare turn NPR was describing how the death toll is actually far lower than reported, since the Gaza Health Ministry only records deaths from direct Israeli military fire. This is 30,000 people, said NPR, and primarily women and children. What NPR meant by “primarily women and children” was civilians, since western media does not consider Arab men to be civilians. The count does not include in it those tens of thousands trapped under rubble, said NPR, and it does not count those killed by disease, starvation, and thirst, from which the entire population of 1.9 million is direly suffering. NPR reported that the few Palestinian witnesses they were able to speak to in the recent past have by now all been killed, including one woman and 22 members of her family.

 
 

What is to be done about this? I live in Los Angeles, where there are on average 2 or 3 pro-Palestine protest actions per week, including huge marches shutting down major downtown thoroughfares, disruptions of fundraising dinners for the military, Free Palestine stickers and tags all over the streets, vigils at City Hall. In Washington DC thousands have flooded the National Mall, in Oakland protesters have chained themselves to weapons-carrying cargo ships, in New York City protesters gather outside The New York Times headquarters to expose its Israel-biased reporting, they’ve created a parody newspaper called The New York Crimes. We have Writers Against the War on Gaza (WAWOG), the Palestinian Youth Movement, Jewish Voices for Peace, If Not Now, Labor for Palestine, Healthcare Workers For Palestine, Palestinian Feminist Collective, Purple Up for Palestine, Queers for Palestine, Film Workers for Palestine, and hundreds more coalitions of people of all backgrounds all over the country coordinating actions to spread awareness and break through the media blockade. Not once have I heard mention of any of these groups or disruptions or actions on NPR, in The New York Times, in The Guardian, in any of the major western media outlets. It is not only disgusting, it is not only sickening, but it is bewildering to see how entrenched corporate and governmental institutions (and in an age of highly developed neoliberalism, the corporate and the governmental are effectively the same) are in their opposition to their constituents/consumers. It’s a desperate situation, because the situation “will not be televised.”

 
 

Which brings us back to Aaron Bushnell. Bushnell is being compared to a number of antecedent acts of self-immolation, but it’s noteworthy that the farthest back is relatively recent: the Buddhist monk Thích Quảng Đức, who self-immolated in 1963 to protest anti-Buddhist discrimination by the government of South Vietnam, which was, like Israel, backed by the US. Similarly, the Arab Spring was sparked by Mohamed Bouazizi’s act of self-immolation in Tunisia in 2010, which caused revolutions and toppled governments all over the Arab world. Of course there are many more historic acts than these two, but I highlight them because their performances were coincident with the emergences of new kinds of media. Both instances were not only aided by media – TV had just emerged as the dominant media in the 60s, and social media like Twitter and Facebook were essential in the case of Tunisia – but self-immolation as a practice seems almost designed for media. It’s an act of desperation but also of calculation, when systemic social conditions are so bad that the common “what could I do or say, anyway?” is replaced by an act of self-sacrifice that exposes the intensity of those very conditions, and attempts to persuade society to reckon with them. The image and the fact of the act of self-immolation is meant to spread rapidly and consume everything in its spread – to break through and turn to ash the news-as-usual cycle – like wildfire.

 
 

In this essay my purpose is not to take a stand on whether Aaron Bushnell is a hero or, as major western news outlets are characterizing him, an anarchist, a religious fundamentalist, someone suffering from a mental health crisis, etc. My point, instead, is to focus on why so many major western news outlets assay to portray him in precisely these ways, and why so many of these articles end by providing the phone number to the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. I think it is because in their effort to neutralize him by isolating him through character defamation – and saying that someone suffering from a mental health crisis is not to be believed is, frankly, disgusting – simultaneously operates as a confession of guilt on the part of the western ruling class, as a communal psychological projection which turns around and betrays a sociological self-diagnosis. To accuse Bushnell of anarchy is to admit that democracy is not functioning in our society. To accuse Bushnell of religious fundamentalism is to admit that the Christian Zionist lobby has elevated support for Israel beyond the reach of public consent. To accuse Bushnell of suffering from a mental health crisis is to admit that our society does not permit, preserve, nor safeguard public health and sanity. To attempt to suppress the political context of Bushnell’s action – an end to US complicity in Israel’s siege of Gaza, and advocating for a free Palestine – is to admit that if Palestine is not free, none of us are free.


 
 
 
**

JARED JOSEPH attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and now lives in Los Angeles and teaches at Los Angeles City College. Recent work has been published in The Brooklyn Rail, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and Gulf Coast. A Book About Myself Called Hell was published with Kernpunkt Press in February 2022, and a novel, Danny The Ambulance, was published by Outpost 19 in September 2023.