“Not to be all and for ever is as if not to be—at least, let me be my whole self, and be so for ever and ever.”   – Miguel de Unamuno

Somewhat disinterested, weary monks watch the Eye as if the act of recalling the tender memory of an inner mirror crackor should one say blinkwere all they shut themselves up deep in the damp earth of old & quiet wildernesses to do. This is but a momentary lapse in perfect non-intentionality, they say.


One of these old renunciants accidentally looks into the mirror & suddenly recalls his withered visagehe is older than he gave himself credit foris this a thing for the confession booth, or is he merely peering deeper into a convex rendition of himself, meant for himself alone? Such spontaneous renditions oftentime take the form of haunting, echoing plainsong, the soft, slow vibratory pattern of the true ascetic’s soul, sung spontaneously in the outdated (so-called) manner of Automatic Writing. It is a spiritualism, they say, It is a dangerous spiritualism.


All at once cockatoos encircle the entire valley. Overwhelming displays like this are not uncommon here. I knew I should never have come. The beauty cannot be allowed to gain in intensity; it is a great burden. And, We have all felt this way at times, yet we carry on.

Why do memories in this inclosed valley tend to take on the inverted manner of mirrors? Even asking the question these days can land one in a heap of trouble. Recall old Drythelm, our favorite baffoon of the cloistered life, always spinning books on his fingertips & courting all manner of ill attention. Still, he was the only one with the simple courage, the practical madness, to look the Abbot fast in the face & chuckle Godhead, Godhead, Godhead…


If no one ever believed a word we uttered, surely this shifting person-hood was at least partially to blame.


Like the reflection of a helpless cub appearing as a full-grown & blood-savoring lion on the uneven surface of a green & picturesque brook, or a soaring eagle hidden in the march clouds, we carve our enduring rituals out of the living bedrockwe know not why we have forsaken our families & all worldly consolations for this life of unending trial.

We exist to perpetuate our existence. This, in the end, is existence. We are here, as ever.


This, indeed, is whatever we choose to call it.




Amidst a wealth of submissions we are pleased to announce our selection of Watcher in the East by Ronnie Smith as the first published poem in our broadside series, Contra Equus Niveus. Resulting from said discovery, we have closed our first open call and turn our attention toward presenting his poem in the brightest light our enterprise may hope to muster, and look to opening our call for submissions for the second broadside which will gather a handful of authors and artists upon a single cardstock page.

We extend our warmest thanks to all who submitted their work and we hope this abundance may water the fields of future issues.


●  C O N T R A   E Q U U S   N I V E U S  ●


Hexagon Press is pleased to announce a new broadside series entitled “CONTRA EQUUS NIVEUS” (“Against the White Horse”), a poetic attempt to advance our sight beyond the imaginative blockade of what the prophet Ezekiel and the poet Blake called the “Covering Cherub,” through publishing single compositions that act against the imposing egoism and phenomenological limitations of our fallen world. As an attempt to defeat that age-old conqueror, we now consider the first Horseman of the Apocalypse riding gloriously into the empire he has both built himself and was sent to destroy.


And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. (Revelation 6:2)

Though endless interpretations of this Biblical passage are extant, both historical and futurist, we propose that the White Horse rides among us today. It is MASS CULTURE. Called by many names in the sphere of critical resistance (the Spectacle, the Matrix, the Symbolic Order, the Big Other, Simulacra, Capital, The Military Industrial Complex, Hollywood, the Music Industry, et al.), we have all been lulled to sleep by its rider’s white robes and crown falsely denoting innocence and authority. Though the White Horse’s hoof crashes seem to drown out all other sound, the poet is charged with carving a silent space in which real thought may explore itself.


Submission Guidelines:

Up to three poems, no more than one page each.

Up to three prose pieces, no more than 300 words each.

Visuals may accompany text, including original artwork, but are not required.

Please include a short biographical statement with each submission.

Email all submissions as attachments (.doc or .pdf only) to hexagonpoetics@gmail.com.

This series will be published sporadically, as the right work presents itself. Broadsheet Number One will be printed in an addition of 200, individually numbered, 8.5″ x 5.5″, cardstock sheets.


Hexagon Press



The whirl of the drone is tuned out like Fourth of July fireworks, or radio music blaring from the building behind with anecdotes chiming in and out of the cacophony that plays on through the night. A window is left open, as usual, to let the cool stream fill a small room with the vibrancy that open space affords. The bay breeze introduces its dampness to the bed sheets but despite the city’s various microclimates at varying altitudes, the outside air brings the same tinge of moisture everywhere. The drone circles over an open elevator shaft capped with a few pieces of splintered wood. Projecting off the soft, reflecting skin of the rooftop its precision can be heard by its high-pitched displacement of powerful wind currents rolling off the bay. A thick slab of fog drifts over the hillside erasing buildings higher than five stories. Houses speckled atop rectangular man-made supports receive far less sunlight and stronger winds than the lower, flatter portions of the city that are afflicted with poorer views. Wind gusts barrel down the triangular heart of the city: Market, Columbus, Van Ness and Montgomery, and the drone maneuvers like a dragonfly across the line that divides the temple from the cathedral. It has wandered intermittently though California and Stockton streets where the steady hum of electricity flowing through the third rail is suppressed by its propulsion. It lingers over an early Edwardian three-story corner building at the intersection at California and Stockton and drifts between its ledges in diagonal lines, touching at the intersecting corners of each of the four brick walls. The soft, reflective padding laid over the original roof is filled with footprints and bits of debris that have fluttered in and collect around the gently sloping recesses in the walls that rise to waist level. It avoids hovering over puddles left over from a storm system that passed three days ago. The isolated, barely considered bodies of water ripple in the accelerating blades of the drone’s duel-propeller and the trash kicks up and briefly forms into a weak cyclone, and unlike the drone itself it is not a full-bodied force but a causality that rests on so many physical forces.

The drone doesn’t know why it has chosen this location specifically. It doesn’t even know that it does not know what brought it to this building among others. In fact its roaming quadrant was programmed for the northern costal region and, in simple terms, it has no idea what it is looking for, much less what it is even looking at. The invisible thread between it and its Watcher has been severed and the drone, like an anamatronic ronin, is left to wander. A grided topographic simulation of the Presidio flashes through its circuitry and the drone, mechanically ambivalent to the stimuli, continues to touch down on the rooftop’s four corners at random. The pulsating blades on the other Aquarian models can be heard in the distance and the rhythmic beating of their propellers, like the electric current of the cable car lines, quickly becomes quelled by the solitary drone’s disassociate state. Clouds move steadily across the sky and hummingbirds dart in and out of a flowering tree’s canopy just outside the building’s southern-facing first-floor windows. Its occupants, like the rest of the building’s residents, have long phased out the drone’s presence and continue their thoughts with a limited degree of clarity. The drone does not notice or understand that the clouds are accelerating as they pass over the city and suggest a parallel between the movement of the traffic and their migration over the peninsula. More and more the clarity of the sky diminishes under the fleeting cloudscape and like the wandering drone’s penetrating sound, it maintains a constant, fluid motion




Adorno_Slide1“America…is inevitably the most millenarian of all nations, even though so far it has avoided the two extremes of modern millennarianism, fascism and Marxist-Leninism.” -Harold Bloom, Omens of Millennium



Adorno_Slide3“Silence has been banished from the world today.” -Max Picard, The World of Silence




Predators 1

Anonymous “street art,” corner of 14th St. & Folsom St, San Francisco

Predators 2“The time seen through the image is a time lost from view. Being and time are quite different. The image sparkles eternal, when it has exceeded being and time.” -Rene Char, Leaves of Hypnos??????????????

Sickness unto Death World of Silence








“Too many things crowd in on man today, too many images press in upon his soul. There is no more silent peace in the soul, only a silent lack of peace.” -Max Picard, The World of Silence


“The spectacle is a drug for slaves.” -Guy Debord


-The Editors, June 2014

Hexagon Press Logo



The trees provided a solemn cover

for the church weeping in its stony slump,

its buttresses are like broken twigs

covered in a mossy substance nestled

with ferns completing their arc.

For nature stayed beside the remains

and laid its textured hands on the colored

glass and prayed over the painted

folds in the minor prophet’s tunic.

The sun has set behind the western gate.

In the pines I saw their arms fall off and many

others surrounding the vessels are seeding

into the earth to anticipate the great harvest.

The branching of the leaves, the branching

of their veins beneath their waxen skin,

means they are meek and impressionable.



“We have plenty of colors in the palette of memory to paint the extremity of suffering, but for ultimate joy we have very few” – M R Newbolt, The Book of Unveiling

The human vocabulary for pain is inexhaustible, and there is an innumerable flurry of episodes painfully wrought in such masterful, decadent detail, that it touches the heights of human creativity. And of these authors, many are compelled by a blinding voice and construct beautiful cathedrals of pain, sweet as honey, yet built with a bitter architecture. The feast of spiritual delights is elusive, as was the Holy Ghost before the Word came into the world. There is still much redemption and expansion of His kingdom to come before ultimate joy is no longer described, but experienced by His children in their ultimate reward. There are pages and pages of expressive sufferings that rise to the mind’s glass roof. The forecaster comes from above withering from a cacophony of many voices rushing like a mighty river.

There was a figure whose skin was like fire and he wore a tunic of brilliant white that emanated a very bright light, and I could open my eyes but not focus on any one thing. His feet were fixed on each corner of the earth and between him grew bushes of lilies, white tipped in their coffin-like pods that were on the brink of releasing a faint aroma representing the innocence of the souls departed.

A culmination is more readily achieved when reaching down. Similarly, it’s easier to grasp a fistful of stones than it is to hold a cloud with the palms cupped together, the way one lowers a firefly into a crystalline jar. The divine projection of the soul into rushing winds that forecast things to come exists in a realm that is inexpressible, and whose completeness is non-associative. Spiritual delight is far less chronicled than its infernal counterpart, which invokes the senses in masterful verse that commands articulate surveys of descending torment.

The clouds of our forecast are picked up like stones and scattered across the sky where they await the interpreters of dreams to dream them. It has been said that the angel striding the ocean and the land [1] represents an illuminated letter and is in itself an invitation to write. In as much, the complete arc of the rainbow that the angel surmounts is transcribed in only a few words and ascribed universal significance.


1. Revelation, ch. 10



HAARP 3 Still Life

…and many sincere thanks to all who have worked alongside us to make this project as real as the clouds overhead, as real as the forgotten dreams of a summer night, including David Wilson, curator of The Possible exhibition; Luca Antonucci of Colpa Press; the staff at the Berkeley Art Museum; Shaun O’Dell, Raphael Noz, Ben Vilmain, Nicola Buffa, James Bradley, Brittany Ham, Zina Al-Shukri and Justin Hurty of The SΩMETHING; Christopher Rolls of Adobe Books; our contributors, as well as all who submitted work; and of course…the readership…

Free copies of HAARP Vol. 1 No. 3 are now on hand at Adobe Books + Arts Cooperative, and will soon be available at City Lights Bookstore, Dog Eared Books, Alley Cat Books, Modern Times Bookstore Collective, and Bound Together Anarchist Collective Bookstore in San Francisco.

Like samurai about to charge headlong into an impossible conflict, we raise our matcha high. The self has vanished, at last.

Hexagon Press




HAARP: A Reading on the Penultimate Eve of the Possible

Presented by Hexagon Press & The SOMETHING

Thursday, May 22nd, 8-10pm

Adobe Books + Arts Cooperative  |  3130 24th Street San Francisco CA 94110

Featuring readings by:

James Bradley  |  Nicola Buffa  |  Irena Contreras  |  Brittany Ham  |  Cara Levine  |  Clare Rickman  |  Raphael Noz  |  Jennine Scarboro  |  Ben Vilmain  |  & others TBA


Podium GIF



HAARP (Homophonic Ambient Automated Recitation of Poetics), Berkeley Art Museum & Pacific Film Archive, April 25, 2014

Copies of HAARP Volume 1, Number 2 are now available free of charge in the Something Gallery (Gallery 4) at the Berkeley Art Museum & Pacific Film Archive located at 2626 Bancroft Way in Berkely, CA 94720. (A limited number of copies will also be available soon at City Lights Bookstore, Dog Eared Books, Adobe Books, Alley Cat Books and Bound Together Anarchist Collective Bookstore in San Francisco.)??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????


A Literary Journal



In conjunction with the Berkeley Art Museum & Pacific Film Archive’s continuing exhibition “The Possible” (January 29, 2014-May 25, 2014), Hexagon Press, literary extension of The Something, announces an open call for the third and final issue of HAARP:


In late January, just as The Possible was opening its synecdochic doors to the world, Pope Francis, in a gesture of peace for a troubled Ukraine, released a white dove from his window overlooking St. Peter’s Square. The dove was immediately attacked in midair by a black crow, casting a shadow over the hearts of those who watched the dove’s helpless absorption into the crow’s sharp form, like light into a black hole. With the horrified crowd, we seek to draw meaning from this aerial foreboding.

HAARP (High-Frequency Active Auroral Research Program) turns its attention now, as The Possible exhausts itself, to the topic of omens, signs, prophecies, and their symbolic manifestations appearing to a world of false promises and ill-conceived utopias. We seek work which aspires to understand this dualism, this double-helix we call “the dove and the crow,” a movement of darkness overtaking the light. We ask that all submissions be received by May 15, 2014.

Submission Guidelines:

Previously unpublished works only (exceptions may be made for highly-relevant pieces).

4-6 poems of any length, but no more than 12 pages total; or up to 3 prose pieces totalling 5,000 words.

All genres and forms accepted. We encourage lamentation, beauty, alinguistics.

Please include a short (50 words or less) third-person bio.

Email all submissions (as attachments, .doc or .pdf only) and queries to hexagonpress@outlook.com.

HAARP is printed and bound with the Risograph machine and other resources made available through the print shop which is part of “The Possible” exhibition. The third issue will be released at a reading event at Adobe Books + Arts Cooperative in San Francisco on May 22nd, 2014, 8-10pm.