by Elly Call He carried the radio because it might have been his infant. Its cries provided his unusual building materials. Beyond the collonades of guitar twang he set in front of himself, around himself, behind himself, Was the glass-trash gravel. Mid-grey alley-way. Some sassy traffic. None of this mattered to the man who took the blues and constructed– (Ionic musical sequence, the symmetrical harmony of temple relations) No his head was never covered. (The heart of the house was the courtyard.) Blueprints in his…Continue Reading “The Richmond Transients: The Architect of the Side Walk Airspace”

 by Christopher Sloce. Apologies to Lou Reed, who is forever scowling at anyone eulogizing him. Lyrics aren’t poetry. They never have been. Maybe poetic. Never poetry. Your English teacher, who sold you on this idea that rock music is poetry, just sold you part of the greatest myth of the 21st century. Lou Reed knew what rock music was. He knew it was simply rock and roll and it didn’t need anything else. To quote the man himself, “If God showed up tomorrow and said,…Continue Reading “Lou Reed’s Rock and Roll”

by Amelia Heymann When I first thought about an Anarchist-run event, certain images came to my mind. One was a group of teenagers pushing over trashcans while shouting “Fuck the system!” Another, a group of angry punk kids ranting about how the man is keeping them down, as some obscure band screams in the background.  What I actually saw when I attended an Anarchist gathering was a group of adults sipping on craft brewed beer while discussing how to run the world without a government…Continue Reading “Inside Liberate RVA’s Anarchy Garden”

by Elly Call Origins aside, Some might have said Her mother Dedicated Her to some archaic deity, With requests for beauty or fertility or wealth. The deity had granted a nimbus of hair, luminous through the car exhaust. When He bent down to Her, it was an aggressive kiss introduction, And She pleaded at His face with Her wet paper hands. They didn’t work, So She conjured with sharp bone fists. She had a sinuous back. He held her wrists. There was the stop-go road…Continue Reading “The Richmond Transients: Belvidere Witch Woman”

by Maya Chesley No stars wink at me from miles away; no squid-shaped clouds swim across the horizon. Even the moon has nodded off behind the silhouettes of gaunt willows. The Richmond sky, from my spot on the sand, looks flatter than a piece of black construction paper and just as dull. I breathe in. The James opens up and spits out a sour cold that floats over the water, over to where I lay. I lay—on top of a boy. All young and glasses-wearing….Continue Reading “The Pipes Call Again (The Distance): Richmond Wanderings”