Pacifica Issue 6 Cover Art Preview

Issue 01

Issue 08


Michael P. O’Leary

Or What Is Now Called Arizona

Zach Powers

Kill The Song of the Approaching Engine

Dacia Price

S is for Silence

Matt Rowan

Aren’t We Required to Never Be


Lindsay Ahl


Ceridwen Hall

After Dinner

Heikki Huotari

Doppler Shift

Matt Kelsey

Gifts My Brother Thinks Might Bring Me Home

Lillian Nickerson

Everybody Loves Somebody But God Loves Everybody

Andy Stallings


Kailey Alyssa

and it pleases me

Cait Weiss

Ode to the One Glove

John Sibley Williams

Sometimes As Mundane As This

Contest Without Form Big Boss Winner

Kell Connor

Blood in the Eye


Rachel Endoso


Cover Art

Ryan Diaz

2 Poems


David Ishaya Osu


i find it
in a bubble

i speak
a shadow


i find it
where there

is nothing
but moonskin


the last time was
a kiss—they

ate the fruit
eyes open

we play

by ear

even a cloud
has my clit

like prophetic hats

—afterwards, we
opened the eggs

& the back
ground, pink

was the same
as our skin




Georgene Smith Goodin

Burrell was dead two days before we thought about Spider.

Miranda was supposed to choose Burrell’s clothes for the funeral, but she chickened out like she always did when things got tough.

“I’ll do it,” I said when she called, even though I thought she should. It was a girlfriend’s job and, after so many years of longing, it was shitty this was the only part of the role I’d get to perform.

And then I remembered Spider.

I didn’t want to waste time going uptown to get Miranda’s key, so I showed the landlord Burrell’s obituary. He wouldn’t let me in until I explained a husky could damage more than the security deposit would cover.

Spider had wedged herself under the futon. I grabbed it by its cast iron arm and pivoted it off her, not giving a damn if I scratched the hardwood floor. She lay there in a puddle of pee, whimpering and pedaling her paws.

I tried to motivate her with some rancid fried chicken I found in the fridge. No luck. Desperate, I took a Bleecker Bob’s tee shirt from the laundry basket. The smell of Burrell’s cigarettes and deodorant sandpapered my eyes, but Spider perked up and let me use it to lead her to water.

The only suit I could find was the one Burrell wore for our high school graduation. It was navy, not black, but it would have to do. I couldn’t remember him ever wearing another one.

I folded the suit so it fit into a brown paper grocery bag. Spider refused to leave the apartment, so I tied the sleeves of the Bleecker Bob’s tee shirt around my waist to get her to follow me. Cabbies just glared when I tried to hail them, so we walked back to my place, all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge to Dumbo.


Spider wouldn’t eat, so I called the vet my neighbor recommended. The receptionist said the dog was probably depressed, and the vet didn’t do mental health.

Miranda got me the number for the pet psychic her boss consulted, but I didn’t share her faith in clairvoyance. Our freshman year of high school, on a wind-whipped afternoon, Miranda and I’d gone to the fortune teller on the boardwalk in Coney Island. The tarot cards had said everything we longed to hear about true romance and fame and fortune.

We’d made fun of every prophecy, our fingers sticky from the powdered sugar on our funnel cakes; but on Black Friday, we’d each yanked on our half of the wishbone, hoping Burrell would be the handsome man with blue eyes that the gypsy promised.

Miranda got the bigger piece.

I dialed the pet psychic, unlikely help that she might be. I didn’t have any better ideas.

“She needs to go to the funeral,” Madame Meow said after I gave her my credit card. “Dogs understand death by smell.”

I thanked her, and hung up, grateful to have a course of action laid out for me. Burrell loved Spider more than anything; more than music, even more than Miranda. I owed it to him to make sure his dog got what she needed. Maybe that psychic had given me my money’s worth after all.


Continue Reading . . .


–for L

I want you          but the you who
   to think about me      I really mean is the you
tell your friends about me          who should know that you’re all
   and when I say you      that matters in poem.
I know now that you means something different
to each of you that reads      I hope you see that now.
   poem             (I mean it.)

vandals & waves
ah baby, I just wanna/make chakra music
for all days/tryna be fire/for you
   (you know?)
always thought/I was sayin’ that/always did
(even back then.)
hopped up on/dopeboy vernacular/all in my mouth
like liquor on a riptide/left-handed pass-off
flock’a beach chair vandals/sandals and Nike’s/tryna make noise
coulda been rude boys/(manners was too tight)
cold hand transfer/warm heart night/make me fall apart
woop woop woop/we used to jest
no joke:/five dealers crammed/up in a Jetta
faithful sing-along/T-Swift/subwoofer masseuse
hard-shell tacos/madlove junkies
when that hotline bling/and that’s
the misused trouble/with knowing things

How to Clean the Breeze/Understand Desire
stand apart from vessel/take in scratches & dents
quit staring at your reflection/(focus.)/insert leftover quarters/exeunt java purchase
ponder crumbs/remove crumbs/discover still more crumbs
always so many crumbs
lather vinyl/rinse sensually/(or rough if that’s how you like it)
shine surfaces/mix around mixtapes
sit down on concrete ledge/wait for sun
to lick clean mauve paint/junkyard hood/find more crumbs

Continue Reading . . .